


Fighting Instinct

by d_e_marcus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alpha Castiel/Omega Dean Winchester, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Biting, Gratuitous Smut, Knotting, Knotting Dildos, M/M, Masturbation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Dean Winchester, POV Dean Winchester, Protective Castiel, Read chapter notes for trigger warnings, Scent Marking, Scenting, Sex Toys, Shameless Smut, The Roadhouse, True Mates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2019-10-05 00:17:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17314508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d_e_marcus/pseuds/d_e_marcus
Summary: Sight, sound, smell - every one of Dean’s senses are tuning into this one unexpected touch. Dean yanks his hand back as though he’s been burned.No, not burned...branded.This asshole just fucking scent-marked him.





	1. Whiskey

**Author's Note:**

> My first foray into the liberating world of A/B/O. A little angst, a lot of smut. 
> 
> Reader beware: WIP with no regular posting schedule. 
> 
> Thank you @PuckGoodfellow, for keeping me in check with this story and always being the best cheerleader.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings below.

Whiskey.

He just needs two fingers of whiskey. And maybe a sleeping pill.

Dean feels the ache in his bones, a distant hum that will roar and scratch at his skin by this time tomorrow. He usually has a solid two-day warning and he usually spends those two days drinking. Preparing. He fucking _hates_ going into heat.

Most of the time he can live with being an omega, ignore it even, with the help of suppressants. But when those heats roll around every third month….well, all he wants to do is get wasted and then fuck himself silly on a silicone knot. Really, he just needs the knot, but the alcohol makes him feel less shameful about it. Somehow.

Ellen must know by the look on his face because she has a glass ready for him before he even reaches the bar. He drops onto the barstool with a grunt.

“You doin’ okay, boy?” she asks, concern etched into that familiar face. Even though she’s a beta, her barely-there scent calms him. She’s the closest thing he has to a mother, after all.

“Yeah,” he sighs, knocking back the first shot. He manages a half-hearted smirk as he shakes the empty glass. “Getting there.”

She raises an eyebrow and purses her lips as she refills his glass. She shoots him one last, long look before moving along to tend the bar.

Dean drains the second glass with ease, then props his elbows on the bar, letting his head hang between his forearms. It’s been a long fucking day and only downhill from here. 

The whiskey flows through his veins quickly, bringing a flush to his cheeks. He’s not tipsy yet, but he’ll get there...probably by glass number four. He stares at the bar top, trying to think about anything except his oncoming heat.

When he presented as an omega at age 16, life pretty much went to shit. Dean’s father expected both of his boys to present as Alphas; Dean had only brought shame and disappointment upon them by doing otherwise. As if he had a choice. 

As if Dean _wanted_ to be a burden. 

At least, that’s the way John Winchester made his oldest son feel. He put him on suppressants before Dean even made it through his first heat. John Winchester continued wallowing in his grief as a raging alcoholic, Dean looked after his little brother and life went on. 

When Sammy presented as an Alpha, nothing changed between the two of them. Dean practically raised Sammy and, by the time the overgrown moose was ready to leave for college, they were as close as brothers could be. Sam had witnessed firsthand how poorly his brother was treated, just for being an omega. When he told Dean he was going to study law with a focus on omega rights, Dean smiled and said, “I’m proud of you, Sammy.”

The smile carried him as far as his bedroom, where he broke down and cried. 

Dean would never tell Sam, but when he left, Dean took it hard. He was heading down a dark, dangerous road until “Uncle” Bobby set him straight and pointed him in the right direction. Which happened to be toward Singer’s Garage. Now, he’s Bobby’s top mechanic; he’s got his ‘67 Impala, a few friends and a shitty apartment; and he doesn’t drink nearly as much. 

Until he goes into heat, that is.

He's not sure how much time has passed, but when he looks up again, his glass is miraculously refilled. Ellen normally doesn’t encourage his drinking, but she must know he’s close to his heat and takes pity on him. 

Probably keeps track of his cycle.

Dean scoffs at the thought, though it wouldn’t surprise him. He drains the amber liquid, willing the buzz to come quickly.

He gives Ellen the two-finger salute indicating his need for another drink, when a hand smacks against the bar top next to him. He flinches.

“Hey, Dean-O!”

Gabriel, owner of the coffee shop across the street, flashes a devilish grin. “How’s it hanging?”

Dean's not in the mood for Gabe’s antics, but he grunts his typical reply anyway. 

“A little low and to the left.”

“Low, huh?” Gabriel parrots, a smirk lingering on his thin lips. “I think I might have someone who can help with that.”

Dean side-eyes the beta, silently hating the way Gabe waggles his eyebrows. This is probably nothing more than his usual offer. Over the course of their friendship, the beta has introduced Dean to a few chicks (and yeah okay, _one_ guy) for a good time. They were just a nice roll in the hay, a good fuck; none worth seeing a second time. And absolutely none of them knew Dean was an omega. 

Since Dean looks, acts and smells like an impotent Alpha or a regular ole’ beta (thanks to those suppressants), only those closest to him even know that he’s an omega. Unfortunately, after copious amounts of alcohol on a _very_ embarrassing night, Gabriel is included in that tiny group.

Dean might’ve been able to see a future with Lisa, a beautiful brunette beta, but that was before she ran off with her neighbor. Since then, Dean’s been a perpetual bachelor and plans on keeping it that way. Probably forever at this rate.

Gabe’s voice jerks him from his thoughts. 

“My baby brother’s here.” 

Dean groans. This isn’t the first time Gabe has mentioned his brother -- a “blue-eyed, sex-haired Alpha” -- whenever the man comes to town for a visit. Dean never takes the bait; he doesn't want an Alpha, and he certainly doesn't want to get tangled up with Gabe’s brother, of all people. 

“No way, Gabe.” 

“C’mon, Dean,” Gabe pleads, his tone softer and so unlike him. “Just meet the guy - you might actually like him. He’s not the —” 

“Not the typical Alpha,” Dean cuts him off with a wave of his hand, “Yeah yeah, you’ve said that before.” 

He polishes off his drink as he stands. “Look, Gabe, I appreciate the offer, but I don’t wan—” 

Dean’s words die as he stares over Gabe’s shoulder at the man that just walked in. One minute he's favoring a buzz and the next he's drowning in a sea of whiskey. Dean shakes his head, trying to get his bearings so he can take a closer look at the man. 

An Alpha no doubt, but good God, is he gorgeous. And isn't that the pits? Because this guy is probably the most beautiful man Dean’s ever seen. Dark hair that he wants to run his fingers through, perfect pink lips that beg to be nipped and captivating cerulean eyes that —

 _Oh fuck._  

Dean’s stomach drops as he realizes he's probably drooling over Gabe’s brother. But that can’t be, there’s no way the two of them are related. No freaking way. 

A glance at Gabe’s smirk confirms Dean’s suspicion and he wants nothing more than for the ground to swallow him up whole. Well, the honey-eyed beta was right about one thing: the sex hair.

When the brother spots them at the bar, Dean’s insides tie themselves in a knot. He's suddenly got the urge to run and bare his neck all at the same time. The first time an Alpha causes Dean and his inner wolf to disagree.

Dean watches in mild horror and fascination as the man glides toward them. The one-size-too-big suit and trench coat ensemble do little for his figure, but even those can’t hide the lithe, agile movement with which the man moves. A runner’s body, built for — 

_Fuck._

Dean knows he’s staring, but he just can’t tear his eyes away. He also knows he isn’t the only person hypnotized by this man; the room is practically vibrating with awe. His inner wolf sits at full attention, hackles rising as the man approaches.

“Dean,” Gabe says, amusement etched on his face, “Meet my baby brother, Castiel.” 

Dean swallows hard, lips parting when the man stops just two feet in front of him. So close, yet so far. His mind is playing like a broken record, _don’t scent him, don’t scent him, don’t scent him_. 

He tries to take shallow breaths in through his mouth, but the man’s scent is strong and tickles his nose anyway. 

He reels back as the smell of cinnamon assault his senses. God _damn_ , the guy smells fucking delicious. 

Jesus. Just like Christmas and home and —

_Shit._

Dean wants nothing more than to bury his nose against the Alpha’s neck and scent the fuck out of him. His fists clench against the temptation.

The man, _Castiel_ , he remembers, slowly extends his right hand. His piercing stare captures Dean’s attention, the way he tilts his head in confusion as though Dean is a puzzle to be solved. Dean's suddenly hot around the collar, skin tingling with desire and he's fighting his omega instincts with every ounce of his willpower.

Dean stares, opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water. A confused, horny, frustrated fish.

Gabe clears his throat.

Dean clasps the outstretched hand and immediately regrets it. He's never reacted to an Alpha before, not like this. Most of the time Alpha scents annoy or repulse him; this guy - this guy he wants to bottle up his scent like his own personal aphrodisiac.

Castiel’s eyes widen just a fraction before he sharpens his gaze, as if he can smell Dean’s arousal and confusion. It’s not possible, nobody can scent him over the powerful suppressants he’s on, but it makes Dean feel uneasy nonetheless. Dean shrinks under the scrutiny and can't resist the instinct to drop his gaze.

_Sonovabitch._

He feels like he just sold his soul to the devil.

“Hello, Dean.”

But the devil doesn't sound like that. 

Castiel’s sonorous voice rumbles deep, washing over Dean and sending a shiver down his spine. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Dean’s eyes, no doubt betraying his shock, flick up to Castiel’s face once more. The Alpha's pupils dilate with arousal as his gaze shifts into something slightly more predatory. That look could star in Dean’s fantasies for the next year alone.

It also pisses him off. Royally. Dean drops his gaze, obeys one _tiny_ little instinct, and this Alpha is rarin' to go? To hunt Dean like the little omega bitch Castiel probably thinks he is now that Dean’s gone and blown his own cover. 

He feels a feather-light touch on his wrist and goosebumps erupt all over his skin. He glances down. The Alpha’s long fingers had uncurled from their handshake and extended, now softly brushing the inside of his wrist.

Sight, sound, smell - every one of Dean’s senses are tuning into this one unexpected touch. Dean yanks his hand back as though he’s been burned.

No, not burned. _Branded._

This asshole just fucking scent-marked him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: non-con scent marking


	2. Fever

Dean stuffs his hands into the pockets of his worn leather jacket and hunches his shoulders against the wind. It's not a short walk from The Roadhouse to his apartment, but tonight he needs to feel the cold against his burning skin. 

His boots pound the pavement in a steady rhythm, but his inner wolf is digging in its heels making every step harder to take.

He keeps walking. Fighting instinct, fueled by his anger.

When he realized that Castiel was scent-marking him, he flipped. He snarled in the Alpha’s face before ramming his shoulder, barreling past him. He was out the door in two seconds flat. 

Dean should have been scared directly challenging an Alpha like that, but he doesn’t fucking care. That jackass had no right.  

Just because Dean’s little brother is a model Alpha, doesn’t mean the rest of them aren’t ruthless, uncivilized fiends 99 percent of the time. Dean knows what most Alphas are like; he’s been on the receiving end of that behavior one too many times. Even the most polished and poised Alphas aren’t exempt from hormone-induced barbarity.

This experience is just ‘Exhibit D’ of his life thesis on Alphas and why he wants nothing to do with them. Ever.

No matter how good-looking, or if they smell like Christmas.

He tosses his keys on the foyer table and hangs his jacket on the wall.

So what if this Alpha smelled nice? Not to mention related to someone Dean trusts. Doesn't mean he can go around scent-marking people. And Dean's only flustered because his hormones are raging with a heat this close. That's all.

Case in point: his skin is on fire and getting warmer by the second. 

His inner wolf is clawing at him, demanding that he find their Alpha, scent him and submit. He aches to feel the sharp sting of canines dragging across his neck. Fights the desire to present face down, ass up. The omega side of him is making a point, unusually assertive.

He hates it.

He toes off his boots before heading to the kitchen to make dinner. When in doubt, act like nothing’s wrong. Winchester motto #13.

As he eats, his thoughts wander to Gabe and the Alpha he left at the bar, probably reeling over Dean’s behavior, though he hopes Ellen will throw the guy out for scent-marking him. Her overprotective tendencies would be welcome right about now.

He'll just have to avoid The Roadhouse and the coffee shop for the next few days until Gabe's brother leaves town. Easily done since his heat is right around the corner; he'll be confined to his bedroom, riding a fake dick for 72 hours anyway.

He figures he’s got one more day at the garage before his heat takes over; he should tidy up now before he physically can’t. Dean walks around the house on auto-pilot, picking up the blanket he’d left draped over the couch, the clean clothes in the laundry room, towels, pillows. He returns his leather jacket to his bedroom; he’ll need something warmer to wear to work tomorrow because winter in Sioux Falls is no joke and it's coming early this year. 

He’ll stop by the grocery store tomorrow on the way home from the garage, and then by Friday he’ll be ready to hunker down and….yeah. Maybe he should buy some lube, too.

He finishes up and plops down on the couch to watch Dr. Sexy, a nightly ritual. Dean’s got nowhere to go and literally nothing else to do, yet he feels antsy and on edge. He only makes it through two episodes before calling it a night.

When he crosses the threshold to his room, the sight stops him in his tracks. The blankets he grabbed earlier are piled up high on his king-sized bed, along with a dozen pillows; the clean clothes and towels are stacked neatly beside it. The lamp casts a warm glow over his brown sheets. It looks so _cozy._

Dean glances down to the snacks and water bottles in his hands that he’d apparently grabbed from the kitchen.

"Sonovabitch!"

He smells one decent Alpha and suddenly he's _nesting_? What a joke. This omega instinct bullshit is getting out of hand. 

On the bright side, because Dean is such a fucking optimist, he'll need all of these things for his heat anyway, so no harm no foul.

Yeah, on second thought, this is just preparation for his heat. It has absolutely nothing to do with a gorgeous knot-head with plump lips and jaw that can slice through marble. 

Dean scoffs and tosses his provisions on the bed, skulking to his beloved shower. The only saving grace of this shitty apartment.

He strips and steps under the cascade of warm water. The water pressure in this apartment is amazing, but he went all out on a high-powered shower head with five different settings. As the warm water beats down mercilessly on his tight muscles, his hands begin to wander.

His skin still feels warm and tingly all over. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't horny as fuck after that encounter, so it's no surprise that he's already sporting a raging hard-on.

Might as well make use of it.

His right hand ghosts across his chest, brushing over a hard nipple before gliding down his stomach and then cupping his balls. He rolls them in his palm before slowly trailing back up to pinch one nipple, then the other. He toys back and forth between them, rolling them, pinching, pulling, until he can’t stand it any longer.

His hand moves south once again and Dean groans when he grasps his hard cock. His calloused hand grips tightly on the soft skin, a wonderful contrast as he pumps himself. He starts slowly, jacking himself in long, slow stokes, adding in the occasional twist over the head of his penis.

He closes his eyes, breathing heavier as he tries to pull up a good memory from the spank bank. He can't seem to pick one. Instead, there are flashes of dark hair, pink lips, long fingers and blue —

"Goddammit," Dean sighs as his head falls back so he can glare at the ceiling.

He resigns himself to the fact that his omega is stronger than his willpower right now and if that little bastard wants to think about Castiel and his Alpha, then so be it. He just wants to get this over with and go to bed.

He switches the shower head to the jet setting and unhooks it from the wall. As he strokes himself in a steady rhythm with one hand, the other maneuvers the shower head behind him. If there’s one guaranteed way to get his rocks off quickly, this is it. 

"Ah! Fuck."

Dean cries out when he angles the shower head toward his throbbing hole, already leaking slick. The jet stream is his favorite for a reason; the pulsing pressure feels just like a finger or two driving inside of him. His hand picks up speed, rubbing over his aching dick as the water ruthlessly pummels his overly sensitive hole. He's already drawn up taut like a bowstring, his orgasm building.

"Fuck yes..."

Dean closes his eyes, letting his hand and the water bring him closer to release. His mind wanders again, supplying an image of Castiel behind him in the shower, breathing harshly against his neck. He runs away with the fantasy, watching it play in his mind as though he’s watching a movie.

_"_ _Tell me what you want, Dean," Castiel commands, a slight growl in his tone. Fuck, that's sexy._

_"You," Dean groans as the Alpha's hands explore his body._

_"Do you want me inside of you, Dean?"_

_"Yesss," Dean hisses as his Alpha wraps one hand around Dean's dick and slips a finger into his throbbing hole._

_"You're so tight, Dean, so wet for me," Castiel murmurs against his neck._

 " _Fuck, Alpha, please..." He whimpers as his mate adds a second digit and finger fucks him roughly. "Harder."_

 

Dean's hand flies over his erection setting a brutal pace, the shower head pounding water against his ass as he falls deeper into his fantasy.

 

_"Ready for your Alpha's knot?" Castiel asks, voice steeped in desire._

_Dean shakes his head in the affirmative, too busy moaning to answer verbally. Castiel rubs his hardness up and down between Dean's cheeks, just barely grazing Dean's throbbing hole._

_"Beg for it, Dean."_

_Dean whines. He can't handle the teasing, the feel of Castiel so close but not giving him what he wants. His body draws up tight as he whispers,_

 

"Please, Alpha..."

 

_"Good boy,” the Alpha’s voice rumbles in his ear as his impossibly thick cock breaches Dean’s tight hole. “Because I’m going to fuck you so hard, omega.”_

 

“Fuck!”

 

Dean cries out as his release splatters against the gray tile, taking slow controlled breaths until he can open his eyes.

The fantasy is gone, nothing but a distant memory now.

He hangs up the shower head after rinsing come off the wall and finishes his shower, making sure to scrub his wrist twice to rid himself of Castiel's scent. His inner wolf pitches a fit.

Dean dries off quickly and slips into his favorite pair of sweatpants. His post-orgasm high is fading, but he’s still half hard. The first orgasm ripped through him so quickly, Dean can’t blame his body for feeling gypped but he’s going to ignore it because soon he’ll be jacking off until he’s sick of it.

Besides, the memory foam mattress is calling his name.

When he hops up into his bed, he spots his leather jacket - the one he thought he’d hung up in the closet. He picks it up and suddenly realizes why it's there, in the middle of his nest.

It still smells like the Alpha.

He’s too tired to fight at this point, cinnamon shocking his senses as he sniffs the jacket. His inner wolf is howling in delight, bathing in the smell of _home_ and _mate_.

Dean’s head snaps up. That thought is...rather alarming.

He falls back into the pile of blankets and pillows, troubled and also rock-hard again. If he falls asleep clinging to the jacket, well, nobody has to know. 

It's a restless sleep; he tosses and turns, arousal surging through his veins as he subconsciously grinds against a throw pillow, leaking on his sheets. Dean's skin is on fire and he wakes drenched in sweat merely an hour later. He'd blame his sudden fever on the whiskey, but that would be a lie.

He's in heat.


	3. Knot

It’s not terribly late, Dean thinks the old grump might still be up, so he fires off a text to Bobby. Usually it’s not such short notice, but Singer’s Salvage will manage just fine without him for a few days, and Bobby understands. He always does.

Dean smirks at the single-word reply: idjit.

He thumbs down through his pathetically short list of contacts, hovering over Sam’s name. It’s embarrassing, relying on his little brother to bring him food and supplies because he can't keep track of his cycle. Dean's supposed to be the big brother, the caretaker, and he can’t even do that right.

Because Dean Winchester is a Grade A screw up.

The line connects after the second ring.

“Dean? Are you okay?”

“Hey, Sam,” Dean sighs, rubbing his eyes. “Look, my heat just started, and I was —”

“I thought your heat wasn’t due for another day or two?”

“Yeah, well, it’s early,” Dean snaps.

There’s a loaded silence on the other end of the line.

“Point is, I didn’t get a chance to go to the store,” Dean says lamely, knowing Sam will take the hint.

“I’ll swing by the store tomorrow morning and bring you some supplies.”

Dean can just see the puppy dog eyes.

“Unless,” Sam pauses, sounding overly concerned, “You need something now?”

“Nah, Sammy, I’m good,” Dean answers. “And don’t be late for work on my account — just swing by after quittin’ time. I’ll be alright until tomorrow night.”

Sam takes note of the things Dean needs and promises to come by after work. They hang up, but not before Sam manages one last pitiful sigh.

Dean lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Well, that was awkward. Write that down on the list of things he never wants to do again.

Unsurprisingly, Dean’s still hard even after that mortifying phone call. He masturbates with no enthusiasm whatsoever before curling up in his makeshift fort, falling asleep surrounded by an ungodly number of cinnamon-scented throw pillows.

And so it goes.

Time is not a concrete concept anymore. He did manage to make it to the couch by mid-morning, but his awareness is limited to a haze of Dr. Sexy reruns, naps and orgasms. There’s probably food and water in that itinerary somewhere, but the gist is Dean sleeps until he can’t and then tames the beast. Rinse and repeat.

And yet, his omega is demanding more with every hour, the next heat cycle worse than the last. Dean’s determined to hold off on using a dildo for as long as possible but it’s becoming difficult when he’s stuck in a constant loop of his cock begging for release, his hole craving a knot, with no end in sight. 

This is shaping up to be the worst heat he’s ever had.

By the time six o’clock rolls around, Dean is sprawled across the couch with limp noodles for arms and legs. Sam barrels through the door with Hy-Vee grocery bags on each arm, clear up to the elbow. Dean is one-hundred percent sure Sam brought everything he asked for and then some. Par for the course.

With the way Sam keeps scrunching up his nose, he’s probably just as eager to leave the stench as Dean is to see him go. Dean manages a grin at that - anything that makes Sammy uncomfortable is a win in his book.

Dean lets Sam wrangle him into the shower while he cooks and changes the sheets which, yeah, Dean is never going to mention ever. He feels better with a full belly and a clean body, so he kicks Sam out and sends him home to his beautiful, pregnant wife before he can mother-hen Dean to death.

Thankfully, Sam didn’t mention the fact that Dean’s heat is early or particularly intense. A few times, he’d eyed Dean thoughtfully and opened his mouth to say something, but he never did.

And isn’t that surprising?

Dean can count on one hand the number of times Sammy has held his tongue, but he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Dean is also one-hundred percent sure Ellen has informed his brother of the little incident in the bar by now; he just hopes Sam doesn’t read too much into it. Some jerk scent-marked him, he scrubbed it off, end of story.

Dean returns to his blanket pile on the couch when Sam leaves. He can feel the arousal clawing its way back to the surface and he’s probably only an hour or two away from his peak. He decides to wait it out by keeping a close eye on one TV doctor.

The fact that Dr. Sexy is a strapping Alpha with dark features, a strong jaw and sexy, brooding face is…not related to anything at all. Nope. Nada.

Man, he really shouldn’t have picked this episode though. It’s chock full of steamy sex scenes and by the time the credits are rolling, Dean is a gasping, aching mess. He stumbles to the bedroom, knowing damn well that he’s going to break out the dildo this time.

He digs through the black shoe box in his closet until he finds his favorite toy, a realistic dildo-vibrator combo with three speeds and a suction cup. It also has an inflatable knot, but he’s never used that before. Never wanted to.

There’s no preamble necessary now, he’s so hard he could hammer nails. Dean falls back on the bed, legs fanning open so he can reach down and —

_Fuck yes._

Dean hisses as the cock head breaches that tight ring of muscle and slides in to the hilt, his own slick working better than lube. He starts slow, sliding it in and out just a little bit at a time so he can adjust. It’s been awhile since he’s had anything up there and, despite being made for it, it’s still a stretch. He breathes through it, reveling in the slick drag and the shivers that run down his spine because of it.

His mind is a traitor, his thoughts instantly turning to Castiel. Allowing himself to fantasize worked so well in the shower that he’s inclined to let it happen again.

His inner wolf mewls at the prospect.

Eyelids fluttering closed, Dean pictures the Alpha above him while he fucks himself with the most realistic fake cock money could by. Those striking blue eyes are always the first thing he remembers. His mind slowly expands from there, adding in slightly chapped pink lips, a strong jawline and cheekbones, and that little scowl that seems to be permanently etched into Castiel’s face.

And god, the hair. Can’t forget that hair.

Dean wants to run his fingers through it and _pull._ Dream Dean does just that, eliciting a growl from his Alpha.

 

_“Dean,” Castiel moans his name like it’s both penance and prayer. Dean can actually feel the rumble with Castiel lying on top of him, chest-to-chest. He tugs again. A wave of arousal runs through him as Castiel’s teeth scrape against his neck in warning._

 

Dean continues fucking himself with the dildo, pulling nearly all the way out before shoving it back in. He groans. It’s just on this side of painful.

It’s a heady feeling, Castiel’s sharp teeth so close to his neck as his cock slams into Dean’s hole, stretching him open. Or so he imagines. He’s at the mercy of this Alpha, being used for his pleasure, and that thought alone draws a ragged gasp from Dean. 

 

_“You’re so tight, Dean,” Dream Castiel growls, puffing warm breath against his neck. Dean moans when he feels a wet tongue slide over his pounding pulse. “So good for me. I’m going to fuck you until you scream.”_

 

“Oh, fuck…” Dean whispers, preparing for that excruciating bliss. His dick is leaking precum on his stomach, twitching at every wicked thought.

Dean’s free hand snakes up to grasp his painfully hard erection. He begins pumping himself in time with the thrusts of the dildo pretending every sensation is the result of his Alpha. He wants to come so badly.

It doesn’t take long.

 

_“That’s it little omega, come for your Alpha,” Castiel commands, “Now.”_

 

Dean bares his neck in submission to Dream Castiel, catching a whiff of cinnamon in the process.

He comes hard, his dick spurting cum on his stomach and hand as his channel spasms around the dildo, clenching down so tight it’s forced out of him.

_Holy shit._

He pants heavily as he floats through another orgasm haze, his heart rate eventually slowing to a respectable rate.

Dean dozes in and out, thoughts wandering to the blue-eyed Alpha haunting his heat dreams. It’s funny, the way his mind plays tricks on him when he’s high on endorphins.

He wonders if the Alpha is back at the Roadhouse scent-marking someone else, perhaps a beautiful, young omega out with her girlfriends for the night? He can picture it now: Castiel as this inescapable predator, a young omega at his mercy and probably _enjoying_ it. He closes in, a gleam in his eye. She laughs at his jokes. Smiles at him like the sweet, innocent thing she is. Maybe he buys her a drink. Possibly stakes his claim, by settling that large, warm palm on her nape, long fingers wrapping around her neck as he leans in to —

Dean wakes at the sound of his own growl.

 

❋       ❋       ❋

 

When Dean thought this heat was shaping up to be his worst yet, it was more of a casual statement. A fleeting notion. Now? He’s writing it down in pen. In _stone_.

Less than two hours ago he had, arguably, one of the top ten best orgasms of his life and it’s _still not enough._

That’s never happened before. Usually the dildo works just fine, but he’s not satisfied, not in the slightest, and he’s at a loss of what to do about it.

He doesn’t have long to contemplate that though, because the phone rings and Sam's name pops up on the screen. He never calls during the middle of Dean’s heats and for one terrifying second, Dean worries something is wrong with Eileen and the baby.

“Sam? Everything okay?”

Sam scoffs, “I was calling to ask you the same thing.”

“What?”

“I just wanted to check on you before I went to sleep,” Sam sighs. “Your heat is —”

“Is what, Sam? Besides none of your fucking business?”

He knows where this is going and he’s gonna shut it down. Right now.

“Dean, your heat was early and it’s bad, plus you’ve never —” Sam starts. Dean has his mouth open for all of 0.2 seconds before Sam cuts him off.

“— Don’t you dare try to deny it because I could smell it, Dean!” Sam says. “It’s…different. I’m worried about you.”

And that last line does him in. Sam always knows how to tug at Dean's heartstrings and he's not afraid to play dirty. Dean deflates like a popped balloon.

“It’s fine, Sammy,” Dean manages, feigning indifference. He throws in a shrug only he can see for good measure. “I probably just missed a suppressant one day or - or something. Nothing to write home about.”

A noise of disbelief relays through the phone. Dean narrows his eyes.

“And it wouldn’t have anything to do with what happened in the bar the other night?”

Ah, there it is.

“Sam, we are not talking about this,” Dean grits out, his hand gripping the phone tighter, “Drop it.”

That is one topic that will be off limits, always and forever. He hangs up before either of them say something stupid. He understands where Sam is coming from and appreciates the concern some of the time, but right now…

Right now, it’s just fucking annoying.

Not to mention how difficult it is to have a conversation with your brother when some pretty embarrassing moans are threatening to make an appearance during an acute episode of what Dean calls the "Heat Wave."

It’s torture.

Dean does his best impression of a starfish on the bed, waiting out this wave of arousal. He's sweaty, restless, horny and everything is hard — his nipples, cock, _everything._ His inner omega is whimpering in need, begging for more.

The waiting lasts all of five minutes before he snaps.

Dean fishes around in the bed for the dildo-vibrator, growling when he can’t immediately lay hands on it. He turns his head to look for it and spots the remote control on the bedside table.

It’s imposing, like a huge billboard with flashing lights that say, _use me_. Mocking him. Such a tiny thing with double AA batteries and it’s causing him more distress than the Kansas City Chiefs’ playoff-round loss to the _Cleveland Browns_.

He’s curious, can’t lie about that. Dean’s long wondered what it would feel like to have an actual knot inside of him. He’s certainly had enough dreams about it, if this heat is any indication. But his prejudice against Alphas always prevented him from trying it, even with a dildo. Like using it to pleasure himself was giving in, being a sell-out.

But now…

He’s never been more desperate in his life and now is not the time to deny his inner wolf what it wants when a burning need threatens to tear him apart from the inside. The _pin-me-down-and-fuck-me-now_ kind of need. Just thinking about using the knot has him leaking slick all over the sheets.

_Jesus Christ._

With shaky limbs and a ragged breath, he rolls over, presses his cheek into the mattress and draws his knees up underneath him, presenting like he so desperately wants to. He trembles with arousal and anticipation, reaching back and dropping the dildo more than once before lining it up to his needy hole.

It slides in with ease, bottoming out against Dean's ass cheeks. The difference in angle is startling, he feels so fucking _full_.

Dean grips the base tightly and fucks himself in earnest, working the toy in and out. He groans; it’s so much more intense this way and he can feel everything. He grinds his hips, works every possible angle and keens when it grazes his prostate.

Dean is reduced to a whimpering mess in minutes.

Droplets of sweat collect on his lower back before rolling down toward his shoulder blades, slick leaks down his thighs and precum drips from his cock. It's so deliciously dirty and he loves it.

His face rubs against the sheets, shoulders taking more weight as he thrusts his ass higher in the air for the imaginary Alpha behind him. Not just any Alpha though, _Castiel._

As he pumps the fake cock in and out of him, he pictures Castiel, his strong hands gripping Dean’s hips as he fucks him straight into the mattress. Alphas are relentless, pounding into their omegas until they scream, and Castiel is no different.

_Holy shit.  
_

He takes his cock in hand, jacking himself hard and quick in time with the dildo which means Dean’s Alpha fucks him hard, no holds barred.

_Fuck. fuck. fuck._

Dean hears himself keening and whining, pleading for his Alpha’s knot. Dream Castiel fucks him harder, pounding into him until he’s begging for mercy.

He’s so close. _So close_. Just need to —

With a shaky hand, Dean reaches over and presses a button on the remote.

One, two, three more thrusts and the knot pops, spreading him impossibly wide.

“Fuck!”

Dean comes like a fucking freight train, mouth open in a soundless cry, eyes squeezed tight as he rides out the best orgasm of his life. He can feel his rim twitching and stretching around the knot, so unused to the sensation of a cock being locked inside of him. 

He collapses on the bed in utter exhaustion, wondering why he waited so long try it. Dean spares one last thought before he passes out.

_It’s so fucking good._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit's about to get real, y'all.


	4. Problem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry not sorry for the angst.

Dean’s heat may have come a day early, but it also lasted a day longer. In total, four days. _Four fucking days_. He would have given up pie for a year to not go through that ever again.

Well, maybe six months. But still. Dean is tired, dehydrated and everything hurts. He’s getting way too old for this shit.

By Sunday, he’s recovered enough to function like a normal human being. He washes load after load of sheets and towels, putting everything back in its place - Dean may be a professional bachelor, but he’s not a slob.

He considers inviting over his best friend, Charlie, but he’s not sure the Winchester household is up for that level of energy at the moment. Instead, he texts her to set up a Star Wars movie marathon for Wednesday, his day off. Chinese food, pizza, beer and Han Solo? Hell _yes_. He desperately needs to spend some quality time with someone who isn’t his brother, and his coworkers do not count.

Besides, he still hasn’t had a chance to tell Charlie about the scent-marking thing or hear about her most recent LARP-ing experience. It’ll be good for them to catch up.

Dean spends most of the day catching up on chores before making a quick trip to the store for groceries and the pharmacy for his suppressants.

How he manages to remember to take them every day, even during his heat, is still a mystery to him. Apparently the thought of being discovered as an omega is enough to scare him into being a responsible adult.

Sometimes.

He’s pulling out of the parking lot when Ellen calls. He sighs. Dean has come to anticipate this phone call after every heat because she might even be worse than Sam in the mother-hen department. Maybe he should give them both gold stars for trying.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite lady,” Dean says, putting the call on speaker and placing the phone on the seat beside him.

He hasn’t spoken to Ellen since the night he stormed out of the bar - which reminds him that he still owes her for the beer and food he walked out on - but just hearing her voice soothes the tension that’s been eating at him all day.

She laughs at the greeting.

“How you doin’, hun?”

“I’m doing great,” Dean replies, going for overly cheery. She doesn't need to know about his heat from hell. “Heading home from the store. How’s it going over there?”

“Well, it’s funny you should ask,” she chuckles, such a warm and comforting noise. “Benny is over here cooking up a storm, ranting about some new recipe he’s trying. You eat yet?”

On the one hand, not cooking sounds really nice, despite having just left the grocery store. On the other, he’s still really fucking tired. Plus, he doesn’t know if that jackass left town yet.

“Ahh, I don’t know, Ellen,” Dean waivers.

“He’s making burgers.”

Oh. Well, that changes everything.

“I’ll see you in 30.”

She’s still laughing when he hangs up. If there’s one way to Dean’s heart it’s through his stomach and Ellen knows his weaknesses better than anyone: burgers and pie. It’s a shame, really.

He rushes home to unload and shower before throwing on some clothes and taking Baby for a spin toward the Roadhouse.

True to form, he’s striding in with two minutes to spare.

Dean lingers just inside the door, allowing his eyes to adjust as he scans the bar to pick out an ideal spot for the evening. The bar is mostly empty - just a few of the regulars and a young couple on the pool table. There’s not a smoke cloud in sight and hell, the Eagles are playing on the jukebox. It's perfect.

Ellen waves him over.

Her arms rest on the bar as she listens to Ronnie, one of the regulars and a Vietnam veteran who shares some pretty wild and inappropriate stories on repeat. Nobody’s sure which parts are true and which aren’t, but that doesn’t make the tales any less disturbing. At the very least, the guy deserves alcohol for either his experience or his psyche. Dean would like to avoid that tonight, please and thank you.

He posts up at the opposite end of the bar closer to the kitchen. If he leans over a bit, he might be able to see Benny in the kitchen.

He does.

Benny’s white apron is looking a little worse for wear, but the Cajun’s got a big smile on his face that widens when he spots Dean.

“You gon try ma new recipe, chere?”

Dean grins. Sometimes Benny’s accent isn’t that heavy, other times it slaps you in the face like a disgruntled ex.

“Don’t ask stupid questions, Benny,” Dean chuckles, then raps his fingers on the bar top. “What’s for dinner? I’m starving!”

That’s the nicest way Dean can say ‘hurry up,’ which makes Benny laugh because really, when is Dean not hungry?

“Don’t you worry, mon’ami,” Benny drawls. “Ten mo' minutes and I’ll have you fed up right.”

Dean rolls his eyes and straightens back up before Benny can see the grin taking over his face.

For an Alpha, Benny’s not bad. He cooks, plus he can kick Dean’s ass in pool. Sam likes him because he can take Dean down a few notches. And he’s never aggressive.

Not bad at all.

Benny started working at the Roadhouse almost a year ago when he moved from Louisiana without a penny to his name. Nobody knows why he left the Bayou or how the hell he ended up in Sioux Falls of all places, but nobody really wants to ask either. Benny just has that... _je ne sais quoi_ about him. Like he’d kill you under the cover of darkness for even asking. Probably.

Regardless, they all love him and he’s pretty much part of the family now. Even if Dean maybe considered banging him at one time.

They never did, of course, but Dean certainly entertained the idea. Benny never made a move, but there was a boat load of tension between them at first. And yes, it was sexual in nature. That’s since cooled off to more of a brotherly love kinda thing. Benny is the keeper of burgers and pie and damn if Dean would do anything screw that up.

Plus, Dean’s pretty sure that Benny’s partial to the ladies and he might even have a regular one now.

Jo, the little sister he never wanted, interrupts his thoughts as she leans over the bar and drops a bottle of beer in front of him. She’s an angel.

“Hey, loser,” she grins.

Maybe not an angel.

She takes in his appearance and raises an eyebrow. Dean’s wearing his favorite panty-dropping blue plaid shirt, a pair of dark wash jeans without any rips in them and a navy peacoat. How he managed to pull together that outfit in such a rush will forever remain a mystery.

“Since when do you wear a peacoat?” Jo taunts. Dean sees it for the bait it is and takes it anyway.

“Since Sam gave it to me as a gift last Christmas,” Dean bites.

“Yeah, right,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes. Her grin turns wicked.

“I’d ask you if you have a date,” she says airly, before going in for the kill. “But we both know you couldn’t get one if you tried.”

Look up the word ‘spitfire’ in the dictionary and Jo’s picture is next to it. Prepare for battle, gents. Dean takes a swig of beer, pulling together his best impression of Sam’s bitch face.

“Listen here, cupcake—”

The door opens and tan flashes at the corner of his eye. The energy in the room changes in a snap.

Dean is compelled to look, not entirely surprised when he sees Castiel at the end of the bar, staring him down with an unreadable expression.

Actually, he’s pretty fucking surprised. And pissed.

The bitch face hardens and he doesn’t fake it this time.

“Uh-oh,” Jo breathes as she slowly retreats from the bar.

Dean has absolutely no desire to talk to Castiel, despite not being able to break eye contact at moment.

Yeah, he’s thought about the guy for the past four days straight, pictured him naked with his cock in Dean’s ass, used him to get off during his heat. So what? That’s between Dean and Dean. The dude is still on his shit list.

Looks like Dean’s going to have to come up with something to say pretty quickly since Castiel is slowly approaching, almost warily.

Now that he’s closer, Dean can see him better.

He looks like shit. The bags under his eyes and the way his lids droop suggests that he’s not slept a whole lot, and Dean secretly hopes its because he regrets being a huge dick. Serves him right.

Castiel stops a respectable distance away, but Dean can see the way his nose flares and he trembles a little. Castiel clears his throat and — and yes, he _is_ baring his throat to Dean. It’s such a slight movement, a barely there head tilt, but it’s there nonetheless.

 _What the fuck_.

Dean was not expecting that. He doesn't even know if the guy realizes he's doing it. He stares at the long expanse of skin until Castiel clears his throat again.

“Hello, Dean.”

He’s still wearing that stupid freakin' trench coat.

“Why are you here, Castiel?” Dean practically growls. Castiel’s eyes widen and he flounders.

“Dean, I — I wanted to apologize for the other night,” Castiel says lowly, his deep voice affecting Dean in a way it really, really shouldn’t. “My behavior was unacceptable and I’m —”

“You’re goddamn right it was unacceptable,” Dean interrupts, definitely growling now.

Castiel looks more bewildered with every word and - oh, a confused pout should not be that adorable on a grown ass man.

And why does he have to smell so fucking good? That spicy cinnamon scent is even better than Dean remembers, instantly calling to his inner wolf. It hardens Dean’s resolve.

“I mean - what the hell, man? You always go around scent-marking random people like it’s your goddamned right?”

Dean is well aware that he’s being meaner than necessary, the poor guy already looks like hell, but truthfully, it’s more for his own sake. Castiel just _does_ something to him and Dean knows the more he sees this guy, the more likely he is to grab him by the lapels and haul him in so Dean can bury his nose against his neck. And he just can’t give in.

He’s stubborn like that.

The universe must have it out for him because Benny chooses that moment to bulldoze his way out of the kitchen, carrying a plate with an award-winning burger and massive pile of fries.

“Everything alright, chere?” Benny asks, stepping up behind Dean’s right shoulder as he takes in the situation. Dean smells the spicy-sweet sauce on the burger, but his appetite has vanished.

Just then, a rumble forces its way out of Castiel’s mouth as his eyes flash red for split-second. All of three of them freeze in surprise, even Castiel looks stunned.

Oh, _hell no_.

Castiel must have a death wish. First, scent-marking Dean without his permission, and now challenging Benny, just because he’s maybe standing a little too close?

These crazy bastards are not about to posture and have a pissing contest on Dean’s behalf. No way, no how.

But Benny, surprisingly, does nothing save for the way his eyebrows reach for his hairline. That’s his cue.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Dean barks, stepping forward into the Alpha’s space. A threat.

If looks could kill, Dean just murdered the entire room.

A silence falls throughout the bar. Shit has officially hit the fan, but at least Castiel has the decency to look thoroughly mortified. He's shaking and looks like he's about two seconds from either crying or bolting.

It's painful to watch, especially when Dean's inner wolf wants to be belly-up in the guy's lap with its muzzle in his neck. _Fuckin' A._

“Is there going to be a problem here, boys?”

Dean didn’t even see Ellen approach, so preoccupied with this prick of an Alpha. She eyes them carefully, inflicting just enough warning in her tone to make all of them think very carefully about what happens next.

Dean’s gaze swivels back to Castiel, who looks absolutely crushed.

“Leave me alone and there won’t be,” Dean snaps before heading toward the door.

Castiel crumbles, looking for all the world like he just lost his.

It hurts Dean’s heart a little bit.


	5. Raw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings below.

Dean storms through the front door hell-bent on breaking something, pacing the living room floor as he vents.

It’s too much of a coincidence, Castiel showing up at the Roadhouse just minutes after Dean. He must have been waiting for him.

And isn’t that just fucking great? Dean’s got an Alpha stalking him and he can’t even beat the shit out of the guy because he’s _Gabe’s_ _brother._

Sonovabitch.

That’s one piece of the puzzle that Dean can’t make peace with because it just doesn’t make sense. Gabe is a little annoying, yeah, but he’s a good guy, saved Dean’s ass on more than one occasion. He’s family.

So how could he have such a dick of a brother? One that he literally can’t shut up about because he’s “not like other Alphas.”

It’s — well, should be — unbelievable.

But Dean knows firsthand that family doesn’t end with blood, and blood doesn’t dictate behavior. He learned that life lesson long ago in the form of one John Winchester.

When Dean’s mother, Mary, died in a house fire, the family man John Winchester spiraled out of control, down to the raging alcoholic that nobody ever sees today.

Bobby and Ellen took Dean and Sam in, of course, folded them right up into their unconventional family that now includes Gabe and Benny and Garth and everyone else.

Every few years, John would attempt to sober up, get his act together and show up unannounced, but it never lasted long. He’d stay just long enough for the boys to think maybe, just maybe, this is the time he’ll stay sober. John would relapse, cause a scene and then take off. Gone in the wind for another few years.

Despite that, the Winchester brothers turned out alright - well, at least Sammy did. So is it possible that Gabe, a secretly lovable teddy bear who Dean considers a brother, is related to a douchebag knothead and doesn’t realize it? Absolutely.

Doesn’t mean the idea settles well with Dean. He just...didn’t get that vibe from Castiel. Despite everything.

But what the fuck does he know? His instincts are so screwed up right now.

Dean’s shaking, whether with anxiety or adrenaline he’s not really sure — he and his inner wolf have never been so staggeringly divided before — but what he does know is that there’s no sense in getting worked up over it. Dean takes a deep breath and uncurls his fists before his fingernails draw blood. A deep breath in, a deep breath out.

Dean putters around the kitchen, making himself dinner since he didn’t get to try Benny’s creation, which is a shame because it looked and smelled like heaven.

He’s going to have to suck up to Ellen, too, since that’s now the second time he’s walked out on a tab.

No harm, no foul.

Dean’s not the best cook in the world, but he’s not terrible either, and he likes it. It gives him time to think and slamming pots and pans around like Gordon Ramsay does wonders for his temper.

As he cooks, he reviews the facts.

Fact 1: Castiel scent-marked Dean without his permission, so he’s a great big bag of dicks.

Fact 2: Dean’s inner wolf was _so on board_ _with it._

Fact 3: Castiel may or may not know Dean is an omega. Either Gabe told him or Castiel is particularly astute, caught Dean’s little slip up and _one_ submissive gesture outed him. Or he may be completely in the dark and thinks he scent-marked a Beta - which, yeah, that might be worse. Dean's still holding out hope for the latter though. 

Fact 4: Castiel is the hottest dude Dean’s ever met and he’s probably going to live in the spank bank for the next decade (despite Dean clinging to that “mostly straight” heteroflexible label he insists upon).

Fact 5: Dean _wants_ to believe that Castiel is actually a nice guy, albeit one with misplaced instincts who makes questionable decisions.

Fact 6: Fact number five is a moot point since Castiel went and challenged Benny like an uber douchebag.

The thing is, Dean knows on some instinctual level that he and Castiel are compatible — no other Alpha has ever affected him like that before — and yeah, Dean knows he’s a good-looking guy, but none of that can or should explain Castiel’s behavior.

But oh, how he wishes it could.

The worst part about all of this is that Dean is _fucking horny_. One whiff of cinnamon and Christmastime and his dick is off to the races. His body and his mind are not on the same page right now. Hell, they might not even be in the same book. And his inner wolf is off gallivanting in the fucking forest somewhere.

Dean is a flurry of movement as he dances his way across the kitchen and back again, whipping up some of his favorite comfort foods and pointedly ignoring the way his erection twitches when his hips get too close to a cabinet. That little fucker can wait, the traitor.

Dean’s nose twitches, inhaling the myriad of smells saturating his kitchen. The rice is done, the potatoes need a few more minutes, the greens need a bit more salt, the chicken’s still got ten minutes left in the oven, there’s a pie in the freezer he could probably make and the rolls are -

_Sonovabitch._

First nesting and now preparing a fucking 'welcome home' feast?

He’s really got to stop zoning out when the Alpha’s on his mind because this is just….well, he doesn’t have a word for it. Pathetic, maybe.

What's worse, his dinner is not nearly as tasty as he imagined it to be. 

Dean growls in frustration as he tosses the rest of his dinner in the garbage and packs up the leftovers. Nothing like an untoward omega instinct to ruin an appetite.

On the plus side, he won’t need to make dinner or lunch for the next three days since he was obviously more than a little distracted by the thoughts racing through his head and the lust pulsing through his veins. Really, if Dean could roll his eyes at himself, he would.

Never in his life has being an omega been so damn inconvenient - and that’s saying something.

He stacks the dirty dishes in the sink and stomps toward the bathroom, the dishes can wait because now he’s pissed off _and_ horny. 

Dean strips, making a face at his damp underwear and tossing them into the hamper with disgust. He jiggles the handle a bit until the water is as hot as it can be and steps under his glorious shower head. He uses his favorite smelling body wash, thankful that there’s not a hint of cinnamon in it, and scrubs and scrubs and scrubs until his skin is as raw as he feels. 

This Alpha is fucking with his brain and his hormones and the stupid knothead isn't even here.

Dean can't ignore the elephant trunk in the room, not when the impressive erection he’s been sporting for the last hour is desperate for attention of any kind. If Dean were a better man, he’d turn on the cold water and ignore his raging hard-on, not even tempted to _think_ about Castiel.

But he’s not.

He has no idea how the dildo ended up in the shower, but it doesn’t matter, that suction cup is going to prove its worth today.

He attaches it to the wall under the shower head hoping it’s at the right angle and then he starts slow, teasing himself with his hands and ignoring the dildo for now. His hands take on a mind of their own and rub over his chest, pinching his nipples into tight little buds, then skim down to cup his balls and roll them in his palms. Over and over again in a maddening cycle as he ignores his aching dick for as long as possible, waiting until he feels his channel begin to loosen up and leak with slick. The smell of it permeates the humid steam of the shower, like pure lust.

His painfully hard cock bobs up and down as it hangs heavily between his legs.

Somebody could break into his apartment right now and he'd tell them to take everything, he's so fucking horny he couldn't stop even if he wanted to.

He finally - _finally_ \- takes himself in hand and strokes his cock softly at first, and then harder, turning his wrist at the top so he can swipe a thumb over his slit where he's dripping precum like a leaky garden hose.

He fucks into his own hand until he’s frantic with need. He can feel his hole throbbing, begging for something to fill it, and he's not in the mood to wait any longer.

He reaches a shaky hand back and guides the head of the dildo toward his eager ass, lining it up to his aching hole. He trails it up and down between his cheeks, teasing himself with it before he pushes back ever so slightly, just until the head pops inside. His eyes flutter closed and Dean breathes through it until that little twinge of pain turns into pleasure and the only thing he can feel is the way he's stretched tight around his Alpha's cock.

With hands braced against the shower wall in front of him, Dean pushes back until the fake cock glides into him, filling him up, taking up every inch of space he can give.

He starts slow, fucking the dildo using the wall for leverage. Back and forth, back and forth, moaning every time the fake dick hits him just right. It feels so good like this, with the water running down his back, the only thing he's missing is the feel of large hands grasping his hips and holding him in place. 

He thrusts harder and harder until he’s practically ramming himself, reveling in the sound of it slapping against his skin. A light sheen of sweat beads across his forehead and his balls draw up tight as his orgasm approaches. Dean works his hips a bit more until the dildo grazes his prostate and then it’s game over.

Head thrown back in ecstasy, a moan bursts from his mouth as he comes untouched with a whispered name on his lips.

  
❋       ❋       ❋

 

“Castiel is a good man, Dean,” Sam implores. “Just talk to him.”

When Dean agreed to meet Sammy for burgers and beer after work, he anticipated a few questions. He did not anticipate his brother telling him that, not only does he know Castiel, but he _likes_ him. Sam tells Dean about Castiel’s contract work at the law firm, the progress he’s made with their addendum on omega rights. That Castiel volunteers at the animal shelter. Feeds the homeless. That he’s _righteous_.

Basically, Sam is feeding Dean a buffet line of bullshit.

“He would never do that consciously,” Sam states, sounding every bit as reasonable as Dean is not. “You should give him a chance to explain. I did, and I think you’d want to hear it.”

“Oh, so now you’re taking his side?”

Dean can always count on Sam to see the logical, rational side of things, but damn if Dean wants to hear it right now. Sam clenches his jaw as he gives Dean a bitch face with an epic amount of bitch in it.

“Dean, there are no si — ”

“He had no right to fucking scent-mark me, Sam!”

“You’re right, he didn’t,” Sam concedes, raising his hands placatingly, “But if you would just listen, there’s a re—”

“Why would he do that anyway?” Dean asks, fuming with annoyance and confusion. The idea struck him just now and it’s suddenly pinging a warning center in his brain, like _ding ding ding,_ _something’s wrong_.

There’s a point here, and Dean’s missing it.

“Yeah, Dean, why _would_ an Alpha scent-mark _you_?”

Sam’s voice is equal parts flat and exasperated, like he’s aged ten years just waiting for Dean to catch up. He stares, assessing, like any minute now Dean is going to _get it_.

Why would an Alpha want to scent-mark him? With the suppressants, he’s basically just a Beta and they only scent mark ome—

Castiel knew.

That's the only explanation.

_He fucking knew._

Dean looks up at Sam and hates the pitying look he finds there, his heart sinking when his worst fear is confirmed.

“He knew I was an omega,” Dean whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of past alcohol abuse, sobriety and relapse, plus vague references to past emotional/physical abuse from John Winchester.


	6. Karma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for the comments, they are very motivating. Enjoy the longer chapter! 
> 
> Trigger warnings below.

Dean is in a funk or fog or some other word that probably starts with ‘F.’

He’s not stupid, he figured Castiel knew he was an omega — it’s his own fault for dropping his gaze — but his instincts got the best of him and now the man knows his secret.

He just wasn’t expecting to feel so sad about it, like he lost something. Which is stupid because Dean never had anything to begin with, and never will because he doesn’t _want_ an Alpha, especially one who goes ape-shit over one submissive gesture.

He can’t.

Point is, the last three days have been limited to a mundane cycle of eat, sleep, work. He’s just going through the motions and nothing will ease the tightness in his chest.

It’s silly.

Dean knows he’s in a slump and, based on personal experience, the only thing he can do is wait it out. Singing the blues? Down in the dumps? Hitting rock bottom? Yeah, Dean fucking lives there.

If it’s any testament to how far removed he is, he forgot about his standing date with Charlie. His best friend, goddess divine and Queen of sass; a human fireball of energy and he _forgot._  

Didn’t even cross his mind until she knocked on his front door two seconds ago.

“Shit!”

_Shit. Shit. Shit!_

Dean scrambles up from the couch and grabs last night’s beer bottles from the coffee table before skittering toward the kitchen, rounding the corner on two slippery socks.

“Hang on a sec, Charles!”

He stacks dirty dishes in the sink, pushes the dining room chairs in, picks the blankets and old clothes up off the living room floor and throws them on the recliner.

Satisfied with the living area, Dean scrambles down the hallway to his room, well aware that he can’t answer the door in just his boxers.

One look in the mirror tells him there’s nothing to be done about his hair, or his scruff, or his face.

“Open up, Winchester!”

Charlie bangs on the door again, but Dean can hear the smile in her voice.

He throws on a cleaner t-shirt, slips on some jeans and runs to the door, but not before slamming the lid on his laptop (which may or may not be open to Castiel’s private Facebook page).

“I haven’t got all damn day, Princess!”

“Yeah, yeah — I’m coming!”

At least the place looks somewhat decent. Isn’t it funny that Dean’s done more cleaning in the last thirty seconds than he has in the last three days?

 _Huh._ So much for that neat freak status.

He throws open the door with a plastered-on grin.

Charlie’s face falls flat.

“Oh, Dean…”

He squints at her pitying look.

“What, Charlie?” Dean asks flatly, his stomach sinking as her face falls even more.

“C’mon, don’t look at me like that,” he mumbles, looking at the floor.

She takes a deep breath and steps inside.

“We need to talk.”

 

❋       ❋       ❋

 

‘We need to talk’ is literally the worst phrase in the history of ever, in Dean’s dictionary at least. Nothing good ever follows.

Charlie is surprisingly casual for the first 45 minutes (because it took them that long to order two pizzas), but the way she’s picking at the stray thread on her pants rackets Dean’s anxiety up a whole ‘nother level. He waits as she adjusts herself on the couch, pulling one leg up to rest her chin on her knee.

“He’s really torn up over it, you know.”

“Wow,” Dean scoffs. “News travels fast, huh? Gabe give you some sob story about his brother not being an actual knothead?”

“No, Dean,” Charlie sighs. Dean’s not really sure what to make of her expression, but he has a feeling he won’t like whatever comes next.

“Castiel told me everything,” she begins. “And for the record, he is the farthest thing from a knothead.”

Dean’s head snaps back as his eyebrows hit the ceiling, shocked doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Is this guy for real? He’s scamming his own brother, Dean’s brother and now Dean’s best friend?

_Bull-fucking-shit._

“Yeah, right,” he grits out. Now he’s just pissed. “And did he tell you he scent-marked me without my permission? Did he tell you he challenged Benny at the bar?”

Dean watches Charlie closely, looking for a tell of some kind, her disbelief at catching Castiel in a lie. But strangely, that doesn’t happen. Charlie just pins him with a long-suffering look.

“Yes, he told me everything, and _like I said_ ,” Charlie replies testily, “he’s really torn up about it.”

“Oh c’mon, Charles,” Dean argues, hands gesturing wildly. “Not you, too. I can handle Sam liking the dude since they apparently work together sometimes, but c’mon, you don’t even know the guy and obviously Gabe doesn’t even know what his own bro-”

“That’s not true.”

“H-huh?”

“I do know him,” she replies simply. “Very well, in fact. He’s my _friend_ , Dean.”

“What?” Dean rockets up from the couch. “Since when?”

Is this the fucking twilight zone? Does everyone know this guy but Dean?

Charlie sighs again.

“You know him, too,” she starts, still picking at the thread on her pants, “Or of him, at least.”

“Well, yeah,” Dean interrupts, “Gabe talks about him all the time, says he’s ‘not like other Alphas.’” 

Dean’s too angry to be embarrassed by the air quotes. He had to prove a point.

“He’s not," she confirms. "Which is why I wanted you to meet him.”

Okay, this is definitely the twilight zone because Dean does not remember Charlie ever mentioning Castiel or the two of them meeting. The only person who ever mentioned him was Gabe, and for all the wrong reasons.

“Remember when I wanted to set you up with my friend ‘Cas’?” she asks pointedly, eyebrow raised for emphasis.

“Cas? You mean Castiel is _Cas?”_ Dean’s voice is tight, like he’s going to snap at any minute. Maybe he will. “I thought ‘Cas’ was short for Cassie!”

Charlie shakes her head softly as Dean sits back down on the couch. She _had_ mentioned Cas before, plenty of times. But the stories he heard about that Cas do not match up with the man he met. At all.

“So what, you guys are friends because of Gabe?”

“Gabe introduced us, yes,” Charlie begins, “but we are _friends_ because Castiel is an amazing person. He came to a couple game nights when he was staying in town and we all really hit it off.”

“Where the hell was I?”

And isn't that the million dollar question?

“It was right after Lisa,” Charlie says delicately.

Oh.

Well, that might explain a little bit. Dean disappeared after Lisa dumped him, holed up into his apartment for months like a depressed recluse, only leaving for food and work. He even stopped going to game nights and the Roadhouse there for awhile, until Charlie and Sam dragged him back into the light of day. Forcefully.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh,’” she replies, rolling her eyes fondly. He’s not really sure what to say to that.

“I thought then that you two would be great for each other,” Charlie murmurs, “and I still do, Dean.”

_Un-fucking-believable._

“So what, you want me to forgive this guy and we all carry on our merry way and he gets a free pass just because he’s your friend?”

Dean’s off the couch again, arms slashing through the air like Edward Scissorhands. “He’s a fucking _knothead_ , Charlie!”

Why can’t she see it? Why can’t they _all_ see it?

“Dean Michael Winchester!”

Charlie’s off the couch now, joining Dean in Battle Royale of the Living Room, and oh boy, that is not a good face. Not a good face at all.

Dean might be a tiny bit scared.

“Now you listen here,” she orders, pointing a finger in Dean’s direction. “Castiel is a good man — a good man who’s instincts got the better of him — and judging by the _insane_ amount of nesting going on around here, he’s not the only one!”

Huh?

Charlie’s arms are crossed, foot tapping as she glances around the room and back to Dean, encouraging him to take a look for himself.

He pulls away from her gaze and takes a perfunctory look around the room. He doesn’t like what he sees.

Blankets.

So many fucking blankets.

They’re everywhere. Along with stashes of water bottles, pillows and stacks of folded clothes. _Ambient lighting_. When did he get a lamp anyway?

She’s right — it’s nesting of epic fucking proportions. He scrubs a hand down his face. 

“Look, Dean,” she says, softer now, her hands grabbing both of his arms. “I get that you’re upset, and if this were anybody else I’d say ‘forget him,’ but…”

She trails off, looking uncertain and maybe a tiny bit sad?

“Castiel is a good man, a good Alpha, and he would never do that purposefully,” she explains. “He’s really upset by the whole thing and I just want all of us to be friends.”

Dean’s face must betray his skepticism because she rolls her eyes.

“I’m not asking you to go out on a date with the guy, Dean,” she says, half-amused, half-annoyed.

Good thing because that sure as hell ain’t going to happen. 

“Just promise me that if you run into him you’ll let him apologize and you’ll at least try to listen?” she pleads.

“Yeah,” Dean sighs, all of his earlier anger and pent-up frustration bleeding out at the sight of his best friend’s frown. He hates it when Charlie’s sad.

_Sonovabitch._

“Yeah, alright, Charles,” he concedes. “If I see him, I’ll be nice.”

Charlie squeals and launches forward, and Dean suddenly has an arm-full of happy best friend and a mouth-full of red hair.

He only feels slightly guilty for lying.

 

❋       ❋       ❋

 

Dean told Charlie he’d play nice if he ever ran into Castiel, but he failed to mention his plan to completely avoid the guy until he leaves town, whenever that may be.

Turns out, avoiding him wasn’t in the cards.

Dean pulls out onto Highway 11 to head back toward Singer’s Garage with the parts he just picked up from their distributor. The sun is high in the sky, Baby’s windows are down, it's not nearly as cold out and Dean’s _Top 13 Zepp Traxx_ tape is blaring through the speakers.

Not bad for a work day.

The signs for Arrowhead Park mark the halfway point back to town and Dean shudders when he passes the entrance. The last time he stepped foot in that park, Sam had made him use both feet to run.

_For fun._

Dean doesn’t want to run, ever, unless it’s away from a bear or some other large beast with claws.

A small cloud of smoke materializes about a mile up the road and Dean worries there’s another forest fire until he spots the car on the shoulder, flashers on and steam billowing from under the hood.

Dean slows down, knowing he might be able fix whatever is making the car overheat and save the stranded driver a few bucks for the tow. Call it his good Karma for the week.

He pulls up behind the car and parks, laughing his ass off when he realizes it’s a 1978 Lincoln Continental Mark V. A pimp mobile if he ever saw one.

He’s still chuckling to himself as he approaches the driver leaning against the passenger door, a cell phone pressed to his ear.

A fucking _flip phone_. Jesus Christ, who is this guy? 

The phone snaps shut and the man straightens. His wide shoulders are taught with tension and back muscles ripple under his tight gray shirt when he runs a hand through a mop of dark brown hair. He’s sweaty everywhere, probably just finished a run in the park. 

He doesn’t turn around, and Dean realizes the man likely didn’t hear him approach between the phone call and the racket his car his making as it cools down.

“What are you, a pimp?” Dean calls out jokingly.

The man startles before turning around, his wide eyes meeting Dean’s in mutual shock.

Of all the fucking people.

Castiel stands ram-rod straight, mouth opening and closing before finally snapping shut with a decisive click.

“Castiel,” Dean grits out when it's clear the other man isn't going to speak first. Dean can’t keep the irritation and resentment from tainting his voice and frankly, he doesn’t care.

_Fuck Karma._

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel replies cautiously, voice softer than Dean remembers. 

Dean glares at the ground like it personally offended the Queen, hands on hips and heart playing a staccato beat in his chest so hard Castiel can probably hear it. He’s eyeing Dean like a scared cat on the verge of bolting, and Dean’s not sure who’s who in this scenario.

“I called Gabe,” Castiel says carefully, “he’s going to close up shop and come pick me up.”

The message is loud and clear, and he accepts it for what it is — Castiel is giving him an out. Dean can leave now without obligation, like he never pulled over in the first place.

It’s tempting.

Very tempting, but he can’t do that.

Again, fuck Karma.

Dean rubs a hand down his face and sighs before nodding once and glancing at Castiel, who looks equal parts hopeful and hesitant. Charlie owes Dean for this.

“That could be awhile,” Dean says, before gesturing to the open hood. “Let me take a look at it first.”

The thank you that follows is so quiet and grateful that it stops Dean in his tracks. He doesn’t know if Castiel is actually this complaisant or if it's a ruse, but he doesn’t trust it. Not in the slightest.

Dean eyes Castiel warily as he moves around toward the front of the car, pointedly keeping distance and the large hunk of metal between them. When Dean reaches the front, he hovers a hand over the engine. It’s still pretty warm.

Castiel stays by the passenger door, even backing up a few feet to give Dean plenty of space, presumably to look over the engine without worrying about being ambushed.

Dean’s not worried about a surprise attack, he’s had plenty of those before and can knock virtually every Alpha on their ass, but he’s thankful nonetheless. He really, _really_ doesn’t want to know what Castiel smells like after a run.

It might ruin him.

He leans over the engine, surprised at how good of shape it’s in considering it’s a classic. Castiel must keep up with the maintenance.

It takes all of three seconds for Dean to pinpoint the problem. Usually cars overheat because they run out of coolant, but this time — 

“Your radiator hose is shot,” he informs Castiel, grasping for some semblance of professionalism. He glances up when he sees movement from the corner of his eye.

“What - what does that mean exactly?” Castiel asks hesitantly. He takes another small step, slowly moving closer to peer under the hood about the same time Dean notices his running shorts.

Castiel clearly has no idea what he’s looking at — meaning, what _he’s_ looking at under the hood and what _Dean’s_ looking at in his shorts. Dean allows himself to admire Castiel’s powerful thighs and trim waist before backing away.

“I might have something in my car,” Dean chokes out, “wait here.”

He tries to ignore Castiel’s adorably confused head tilt and high-tails it back to his own car.

Dean rummages around in Baby’s trunk, finding a few hoses that might work but none of them are long enough, and Dean's so flustered he can't even laugh at the innuendo. 

He knows Castiel will probably want to apologize and now's as good a time as any seeing as how they are alone, but he'd really love to avoid the awkwardness altogether.

He wastes a few more minutes before finally grabbing the longest hose he can find. Might as well get it over with.

Castiel has resumed his post at a respectable distance away, thank Chuck, so Dean gets to work pulling off the old hose and comparing it to the one in his hand. Of course the hose isn’t the right circumference, it’s too thick, but he might be able to whittle it down enough to make it work.

It's not a permanent fix, but it'll get him to a garage at least. Dean tells Castiel as much when he whips out his pocket knife and begins cutting the inner layer of the hose.

"Dean," Castiel says after a few moments, his deep voice rumbling through the air in a way that has Dean rooted to the spot, waiting on bated breath for whatever comes next.

Hopefully something crude and chauvinistic so the guy can go three-for-three and Dean can write him off forever.

"I know you probably don't want to hear this, but I want to apologize for my behavior the last two times we've met. It's..." he pauses uncomfortably, and Dean knows it's a mistake, but he looks anyway.

Castiel’s eyes are an impossibly vibrant and brilliant shade of blue, one that not only demands attention, but captures it. Dean can’t look away.

So much pain and longing and hope swirling in his expression it makes Dean’s heart ache. He takes in every minute expression, every blink, every breath, every quiver of lip. If Castiel is lying, he will know.

He listens patiently. Waiting.

But —

"I have no excuse and I am truly sorry," he says determinedly, eyes pleading. "But I want you to know that behavior is not indicative of who I am as a person and I hope that one day you can forgive me and maybe we can be friends?"

Dean is cataloging every little detail in the hopes that one of them, _just one,_ might give him away. But there's nothing.

He's telling the truth, so far as Dean can see.

And…

Dean really doesn’t know what to do with that. He was expecting Castiel to say or do something to dig himself a deeper hole in the ground and now...he doesn’t even want to be mad at the guy. But he feels like he should on principle.

He doesn’t know, the whole thing is just so fucked up, and apparently Dean’s quiet stare is enough of an answer for Castiel. 

He nods once, then eyes the ground as a frown tugs at the corner of his mouth. His face eventually settles into a somber expression Dean doesn’t like very much.

It’s a little too close to one Dean himself used to wear like a well-loved jacket. 

Neither of them speaks until Dean’s met his uncomfortable silence quota for the day. Castiel probably interprets his silence as rejection, so Dean gives in and extends the olive branch, eyes flicking over to Castiel where he stands like a man in mourning.

“I didn’t take you for a vintage kind of guy,” Dean observes, using his pocket knife to gesture to the car when Castiel doesn’t understand at first.

Castiel’s eyes soften as he smiles sadly.

“I - I like it,” he says with a shrug. “I’ve had it since high school.”

“Oh man, this pimp mobile?” Dean huffs. He can’t imagine what Castiel would look like as a gangly, pimple-faced teenager, let alone one driving this beast. It’s the start of the next Stephen King book.

“You either got all the ladies or got picked on a lot,” Dean mutters, carving his knife further into the hose.

Castiel’s face falls once more and Dean feels like an ass when he realizes it was the latter.

“It’s a nice car, though,” Dean says, practically throwing said olive branch in the man’s face in an attempt to compensate for bringing up what can only be cruel memories. “You’ve obviously taken care of it.”

“Well, I pay someone to do it,” Castiel acquiesces. “But yes.”

And put a big ‘X’ in the uncomfortable conversation box since that quota has been met for the day, too. How lovely.

Dean whittles the hose as much as he can (ignoring Castiel as much as he can) and attempts to connect it to the radiator. It’s not a perfect fit, but it should get the gas guzzler running. He fumbles with the hose, having trouble holding one end in place while trying to connect the other misfit end to the radiator.

Five minutes in and Dean’s already sweating.

Castiel stands off to the side, shifting his weight from foot to foot while Dean struggles. He finally breaks.

“Is there something I can help you do?”

As loathe as Dean is to admit it, a second pair of hands would be extremely helpful right now considering the location of the radiator in this car. But he also doesn’t want to be within five feet of the guy.

Decisions, decisions.

“Yeah,” he finally replies, determined to get this over with as quickly as possible. “Hold onto this piece for me while I deal with this end.”

Castiel moves closer takes the proffered end from Dean’s hand, careful not to touch him as he bends into place. Dean breathes shallowly, moving back under the hood to fit his end of the hose over the radiator cap, working quickly in the hopes of finishing before his body demands oxygen and he gets a lungful of cinnamon.

It’s a pipe dream.

He sweats with the effort until it’s impossible not to take a deep breath.

He immediately regrets it because, at this distance, Dean can smell every little nuance of Castiel’s musk and it drives him insane instantly. Spontaneous combustion.

_Sonovabitch._

Dean closes his eyes and fights it as best as he can, but there’s no mistaking the tell-tale dampness in his boxers and the cloying scent that comes along with it.

Dean knows, he _knows_ Castiel can smell it, too, and he’s almost afraid to look.

The hose snaps in place as Dean exhales a nervous, ragged breath before dragging his gaze up to Castiel’s face, where those bright blue eyes sweep over his now-flushed face.

He’s not sure what Castiel finds in his expression, but it’s enough to make him drop his end of the hose and slowly back away from the car. A gesture that Dean could not be more thankful for at the moment.

He'll think about that later, but for now he needs to get the hell out of Dodge. He works quickly to finish jerry-rigging the radiator hose.

“Can you, uh, start the car?” Dean asks awkwardly, his voice catching with nerves. He needs to leave before this gets anymore embarrassing.

Castiel doesn’t respond, but slowly backs away, walking around the back of the car to the driver’s side. The car starts easily and Dean watches for a few moments before deciding his makeshift hose will work fine.

“This’ll get you to a garage, but you’ll definitely need a new hose ASAP,” he calls to Castiel through the open window. If he pretends this is just another customer, he might make it out alive. The hood falls shut with a slam before Dean pats it twice.  _Get moving._

Dean barely registers the ‘thank you’ and concerned face as he stumbles toward the Impala.

_One foot in front of the other._

He prays to every God he’s ever heard of that Castiel doesn’t look in his rear-view mirror because Dean doesn't even want to think about the Alpha noticing the shining wet spot that is no doubt now visible through his jeans.

He’s got to get out of there - _keep moving_ \- before he thinks too hard about Castiel’s scent - _close the door_ \- his penetrating gaze -  _seat belt, idjit_ \- or the way those chapped, pink lips had parted when Dean’s eyes met his - _pedal to the floor_ -

It’s dangerous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: depiction of depression.


	7. Golden

Dean’s hands shake all the way back to the garage.

His inner wolf is howling in desperation, practically climbing the walls, and it’s driving him fucking nuts. Not to mention the feel of wet jeans rubbing against his ass. Back at Singer’s, he makes it into another pair of pants before anyone sees or smells him, thank Chuck, but he’s rattled.

Mrs. Moseley’s oil change is next on the docket, an easy job — and that’s probably a good thing considering there’s no way in hell Dean is going to function properly for the rest of the day.

Really, what are the chances that he runs into the one person he’s actively trying to avoid? Mercury must be in retrograde or some shit because that is just not fair.

Castiel’s stupid blue eyes and pink lips and his stupid trench coat and sex-hair are not fair either.

His _scent._

Not fair at all. 

Because they’re wearing Dean down. It’s like every time he sees this guy he gets a little less angry and a lot more confused.

Like, the way he gave Dean plenty of space and went out of his way to make sure Dean felt comfortable, those are things a good Alpha would do, what _Sammy_ would do, not some — not some asshole who scent marks without permission or challenges other Alphas to a pissing contest.

It doesn’t make sense.

Hell, he even seemed concerned on Dean’s behalf when he….had an involuntary reaction. Most other Alphas would have been trying to sweet talk their way into his pants the minute he soaked them, but Castiel _backed up_. With the suppressants, Dean doesn’t smell like anything other than Beta, but the same can’t be said for his slick. No amount of medication can cover up that hearty aroma and the fact that Castiel could even keep a level head around Eau de Dean is...kind of impressive, actually.

It’s not like Dean did it on purpose or anything; he couldn’t help it, biology and all that jazz. But —

_Huh._

A domino line of epiphanies clatter around his brain and Dean wonders why he didn’t think of it before. The nesting, the food, the ridiculous amount of slick he’s produced over the past week — it’s just basic biology. His body’s reaction to Castiel since they’re probably compatible or whatever. _Fertile_.

That means Castiel would have had some reaction, too, if Dean’s 9th grade biology class was worth a hill of beans. But the scent-marking and Alpha red eyes aren’t involuntary, are they? Dean can’t account for that. Alphas should be able to control those things, right?

It does give Dean pause, but that’s enough thinking for one day, thank you very much. He’s home and ready to strip out of his grease-covered clothes and forget about everything. His omega instincts are making him jittery.

But even his glorious shower head doesn’t take the edge off, or food, or his favorite TV show. By the end of the night, he’s still wound up tighter than suspension on a Mack truck.

Thirty minutes of staring at the bedroom ceiling is enough for Dean to say _‘fuck it’_ and grab the lube from his bedside table. A quick five knuckle shuffle should do the trick.

He squirts some lube into his palm, warming it up before wrapping his hand around his semi-hard dick, hissing at the contact. It feels good, so good, and Dean closes his eyes, squirming on the bed as he works himself up to a hard-on that could chisel his gravestone.

He tries to think about Pamela Anderson, Dr. Sexy, busty Asian beauties, anything except Castiel and his stupid running shorts, but it’s no use. His inner wolf is putting its foot — uh, paw — down and Dean knows he’s going to give in eventually, so he might as well save himself some time.

Dean pouts as his inner wolf prances around with glee. He needs to put a fucking leash on that thing because they’ve never been on opposite teams before and Dean is losing. Badly.

He pushes the thought aside and goes back to the matter at hand — in hand — and conjures up the steamiest thing he can imagine. Castiel, sex hair, running shorts, sweat. Yeah, yeah that’s good.

 

_Castiel prowls forward until Dean’s knees hit the back of the bed and he releases a shuddering breath. He’s prey in the den of a predator._

_He falls back onto the bed, groaning when Castiel’s hands slide up his thighs as the man settles himself between them._

 

Dean’s hand works over his erection, stroking in that steady rhythm he likes. This isn’t going to take long at all.

 

_Castiel leans over him, planting firm kisses to Dean’s abdomen before nipping at the skin below his belly button._

_“Tell me what you want, Dean,” dream Castiel whispers against his skin. It tickles. "Do you want my mouth?”_

_Dean’s dick twitches at the thought and Castiel smirks. He kisses Dean’s stomach again._

_"Or do you want my cock buried deep inside you?”_

_Dean could probably come just listening to Castiel read a harlequin romance, so he moans to show his approval of both options._

_“Hmm,” Castiel debates, “let’s go with option one then, shall we?”_

 

 

“Fuck, yes…” Dean moans, his hand gripping tighter around his length.

 

_“I do love the way you taste, my sweet omega,” Castiel muses._

_His hands trail up and down Dean's sides, ghosting over his ribs and sending a shiver down his spine. He mouths at Dean's stomach before moving higher, placing feather-light kisses across firm pecs before taking Dean's left nipple into his mouth. Castiel nips and sucks and flicks at the hard bud until it's sensitive from over-stimulation, then moves to the right side for the same purpose. Dean's hips roll upward seeking friction against Castiel's lean body, the two of them grinding against each other until Dean is whimpering in need. Castiel releases Dean's nipple from his mouth with a pop, his voice sounding even more wrecked than before._

_"Roll over for me.”_

 

Dream Dean seems confused by this, but real Dean knows exactly where this little fantasy is headed. It’s his secret guilty pleasure.

 

_Dean rolls to lay flat on his stomach, legs hanging off the bed, and scrunches his face in confusion when Castiel grabs him by the hips. The Alpha pulls Dean toward him until his hips are off the bed too, legs draped over broad shoulders and his hard cock dangling freely in the air._

 

Dean only saw Castiel’s shoulders through a tight t-shirt, but that’s enough for his mind to work with. Between the broad shoulders and the firm, muscular thighs, dream Castiel will take Dean’s weight easily, and it’s so fucking hot.

 

_Dean squawks when Castiel’s nose runs up the length of his crack._

_“You smell so good, Dean,” Castiel tells him, hands gripping his cheeks and spreading them, his breath ghosting over Dean’s hole. “I want to drink you straight from the source.”_

_"Alpha!”_

_Dean cries out at the first brush of Castiel’s tongue against his most sensitive flesh. It’s so wrong, but it feels so damn good._

_“Mhmm, you taste so good,” Castiel moans, gripping Dean’s cheeks tighter_ — _“I’m going to eat you out until you beg, omega”_ — _before diving in with fervor._

_Castiel’s tongue circles Dean’s hole, teasing the furled muscle first before alternating between flicking at the flesh with the tip of his tongue and bathing it in saliva on wide laps over the top. Just when Dean gets used to one sensation, Castiel switches it up._

 

Dean’s hand flies furiously over his erection, his hand a blur as he chases his release. His other hand settles between his cheeks, finger tapping and stroking at his wet hole to mimic what his dream Alpha is doing with that expert tongue.

 

_Castiel eats Dean out with gusto, moaning when a gush of slick coats his lips. He laps at it with his tongue before diving back in to probe at Dean's messy hole with his tongue._

 

In real life, Dean wouldn’t be able to see what Castiel looks like with shining, wet lips and his face buried deep in between Dean’s ass cheeks. In his dream though...in his dream he gets a front row seat to the show.

 

_Castiel’s lips and tongue continue relentlessly, tormenting Dean until he’s sobbing for release._

_“Alpha, please!”_

_His cries turn into pleas until finally, finally, Castiel wraps his long fingers around Dean’s aching cock and strokes in time with his kitten licks around Dean’s tight little hole._

 

He’s close, so fucking close — god, please just —

 

_Castiel waits until Dean is trashing on the bed and releasing a needy, high-pitched keen. He pulls back just enough to straighten his tongue into a blade of muscle, stabbing into Dean’s hole and tasting his insides._

 

“Fuck!”

Dean’s back arches as he cries out, his warm release landing on his chest and stomach, cock pulsing as he rides out his orgasm. He continues working his cock, slowing his hand as the pleasure winds down, his finger slowing pumping where it now rests inside him.

When he’s finally recovered, Dean cleans himself up and falls back onto his memory foam mattress with a satisfied hum. He should be more concerned than he feels right now, but he can’t bring himself to care after that spectacular orgasm. One thing’s for certain though:

He is so screwed.

 

❋          ❋          ❋

 

Mimosas.

_Sunday Brunch._

How Dean got roped into this he has no fucking clue. But he’s here.

The quaint little restaurant with patio picnic tables and sunflowers on the window was Eileen’s choice. And if there’s one thing Dean’s learned, it’s to give the pregnant women what they want. Always.

He waits on the sidewalk for Sam and Eileen, but they shouldn’t be too far behind him. Dean’s glad they called. He hasn’t seen his sister-in-law in over a week and that means he hasn’t gotten to tell his next niece or nephew that the coolest uncle ever is not-so-patiently waiting for them to arrive.

Too bad little Thomas is staying over at a friend’s house because Dean misses him, too. The last time those two spent time together, they both got in trouble for rough-housing in the yard and getting grass and mud stains all over their clothes. It was worth it though.

An elderly couple passes by with a fluffy Golden Retriever that has way too much energy for owners with frail hips. His tail is wagging so hard it makes his whole back end shake and he just looks so freakin’ happy that Dean has to say hi. The owners are nice and let him blubber over the fluff monster until a beanpole shadow looms over him.

“Finally found a friend, Dean?” Sam asks, voice laced with amusement.

“Hey, Duke and I are buds now, we’re bonding over here,” Dean says, standing back up and giving the dog one last pat on the head. He points to Sam. “You’ve been demoted to second place.”

“Ouch,” Sam winces theatrically, smiling at the elderly couple who are watching with delight. He leans down to give the overgrown puppy a pat on the head. “I guess I can take silver behind such a cute _gold_ en.”

Grandma and Grandpa laugh so hard Dean’s afraid their dentures might fall out. He spots Sam’s smug smile and looks at him with a face that can only be translated as ‘ _are you freaking kidding me, Samantha_?’

They wave goodbye and watch the trio walk down the sidewalk before Dean rounds on his brother, “That was a terrible pun, dude.”

Sam laughs and Eileen nudges him with her elbow, but she’s grinning, too.

“Hi, Dean,” she directs at him, swooping in for a quick hug. Dean gives her a peck on the cheek then immediately leans down to talk to his next protégé.

“Heya, little blip,” Dean coos, trying to sign as he goes. “You’ve gotten so big! Uncle Dean can’t wait to meet you. Hurry up and come out, okay?”

Sam and Eileen sigh and roll their eyes fondly, though they should be used to it by now. Dean might take his 'cool uncle' roll a bit too seriously.

“Hope you’re ready for some pancakes ‘cause your mommy’s gonna eat all of them,” Dean jokes before winking at Eileen.

She slaps his arm in jest and says, “C’mon you two, let’s get inside before they run out of pancakes.”

If Dean thought the outside was bad, the inside is ‘quaint’ with a capital Q. Flowered wallpaper, knick-knacks on shelves and green vinyl booths.

_Jesus Christ._

It looks like Martha Stewart threw up in here. He was wrong before — _this_ is actually the start of the next Stephen King novel.

They get a booth in the far corner and make themselves comfortable. Dean sits by the window so he can look at something other than daisy patterned wallpaper and lace doilies. Sam slides in across from him and Eileen takes the outside seat. Somehow, her baby bump still fits.

They catch up over small talk until the waitress comes back with their drinks. Dean got black coffee, Sam ordered a mimosa _— what the actual fuck_ — and Eileen sticks to water. They are perusing the menu when a familiar voice assaults Dean’s ears.

“Well, what a coinkydink!”

Gabe stops at the front of their table, signing to Eileen before turning to the Winchester brothers. Dean’s grin slips a little when he sees Castiel over Gabe’s shoulder. Of course.

“Having a family brunch?”

“Yeah, we’re trying this place out for the first time,” Sam responds tactfully. “Did you guys go to the bookstore?”

Only then does Dean notice the bag in Castiel’s hand, the logo belonging to the second-hand bookstore down the street. It’s where Dean gets all of his Vonnegut novels.

“Yep, taking the little bro out for some bonding time,” Gabe says with a smile, clapping an uncomfortable Castiel on the shoulder.

“Aww, how sweet,” Eileen says, glancing around the booth. Dean can already see it coming. Chuck, help him.

“You guys should join us!”

_Sonovabitch._

“Are you sure?” Gabe asks, already moving toward the table, not at all concerned that they might say no. It’s just a formality at this point. “We wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Yes!”

“Of course — ”

Sam and Eileen rush to assure them their company is not unwanted, and Dean’s left the odd man out. Dean never wanted to see the guy again, now they’re gonna have brunch?

Again, fuck Karma.

“Gabe, maybe we should get our own table — ” Castiel starts, looking extremely uncomfortable. When he glances in Dean’s direction, three pairs of eyes follow.

“Nonsense, little bro!” He says goodnaturedly. “Dean doesn’t mind.”

Dean sighs, preparing to slide over farther in the booth when Castiel speaks again, this time with a little more conviction.

“Perhaps we should ask him first, Gabriel,” Castiel says lowly, glaring at his brother before turning a more neutral expression toward Dean. “Dean, if this makes you uncomfortable, please say the word and we will go get our own table.”

Talk about being put on the spot, he’ll just look like an ass if he says something now. But Castiel asked. He didn’t have to, but he did. It reminds Dean of his surprisingly considerate behavior during the radiator hose fiasco.

What the hell, it’s not like he’ll try anything with four other people in the same booth.

“It’s fine,” Dean says, trying to loosen up a bit. “Just don’t eat all the pancakes, Gabriel.”

“Excellent,” Gabe says gleefully, “I’ll just pull up a chair.”

He snags a chair from an empty table nearby and swings it around until he’s sitting on it backwards as an endcap to their booth, casually leaving the spot next to Dean open.

He panics.

If his suppressants didn’t already mask his chemosignals, he’d have the whole restaurant smelling like soured panic right now. Sam and Eileen are having their own sidebar, signing so quickly Dean can’t keep up, but they aren’t going to bail him out.

Castiel’s head snaps up and locks eyes with Dean, rooting him to the spot like a cornered animal. A shadow of grief passes over his face before he turns.

“Gabe, please take the seat in the booth and I’ll sit in the chair,” Castiel intones, clearly fed up with his brother’s antics. Dean relaxes, simultaneously shocked and grateful for Castiel’s perceptiveness.

“Oh c’mon, you tw—”

“Gabriel,” Castiel’s voice cuts through like a knife, “ _Move_.”

And wow, that growly voice should not be so fucking sexy.

Gabriel looks a little too stunned to speak as he quietly slides over into the booth. Which is odd considering how annoying he can be, surely his brother’s pulled rank a time or two. Dean thinks the Beta would be used to hearing that hint of Alpha command by now.

Castiel smoothly adjusts the chair and sits down without so much as a glance in Dean’s direction. In fact, it looks like the silverware is particularly fascinating today. Dean inspects his own.

The waitress comes back, not at all ruffled by the two new members to their party and completely unaware that she just saved them all from a painfully awkward silence. She takes their orders before bouncing off again.

Dean’s not going to dwell on the fact that Castiel ordered his favorite — strawberry pancakes with butter pecan syrup — so when it was his turn to order he grumbled and picked real maple syrup instead. Of course Sam had to notice.

“I’m surprised you asked for the maple syrup, Dean,” he muses, too lightly to be a coincidence. “You usually order butter pecan syrup with your strawberry pancakes.”

Dean stares at the tabletop, refusing to acknowledge his brother’s unwarranted observation. The awkward silence only lasts a beat too long before Gabe starts up again, talking animatedly and trying to sign at the same time, though he still has a limited vocabulary.

“So, did I mention Castiel wanted to try this place because of the...bees?”

He pauses, clearly not knowing the sign for bees. Eileen’s eyebrows scrunch in confusion.

“— did you say _peas_?”

And just like that the tension is gone. Dean chuckles, watching the whole thing with tainted amusement. Sam turns toward his wife to sign, but Castiel gets there first.

“No, he said _bees_ ,” he says, his deft fingers signing elegantly as he goes. “There are bees painted on the front of the building.”

Of course he knows sign language. Jesus Christ, who is this guy?

Gabe goes on to explain his little brother’s peculiar fascination with bees and the bee phone case they just bought for his new iPhone.

“Finally got rid of the old flip phone, huh?”

The question is out of his mouth before Dean can think twice. Castiel looks mildly uncomfortable, but Gabe’s grinning like a cat that got the canary.

“The flip phone was just a temp,” Gabe responds with glee, “until we could get him a replacement iPhone.”

“What happened to the first one?” Sam asks, clearly taking his social cues from Gabe and not Castiel, who’s shrinking further into his chair.

“Oh, Castiel crushed it by accident,” Gabe says casually. “You see, the other night he was _really_ upset and —”

“ _Gabriel,”_ Castiel grits out a warning that Gabe pays no attention to.

“ — he squeezed it a little too hard and the screen just — ” Gabriel demonstrates, his fist closing around an imaginary stress ball. Sam and Dean both look a little shell-shocked.

Castiel squeezed his iPhone so hard it cracked the screen? What the actual — is that even possible? Who has that kind of hand strength? And why is Dean even asking these questions?

Dean can’t help but think it might have something to do with one of their encounters at the Roadhouse, but it doesn’t satisfy him like he thought it would. If anything, he feels guilty, and no fucking clue why.

Sam and Gabe carry on, but Dean’s lost in thought and the table leaves him to his own devices. He’s grateful for it, though he’s sure the reprieve won’t last long with Gabe at the table. Castiel is equally as quiet.

The waitress comes back with their food, bringing extra butter and earning herself a bigger tip. According to Paula Deen, you can never have too much butter and Dean is inclined to agree.

“Anyone need cinnamon sugar for their pancakes?”

“NO!”

Dean isn’t going for shock value, but he blurts that out loud enough to startle the entire restaurant.

 

❋          ❋          ❋

 

Dean made it through the rest of the meal relatively unscathed. He contributed his two cents a few times, too acutely aware of Castiel’s gaze when he did, until he finally let Sam and Gabe carry the conversation. He couldn’t stand the way his inner wolf preened anytime Castiel’s eyes landed on him. As it was, he had a hard enough time keeping the blush from his cheeks when Castiel offered to share his butter pecan syrup. 

As they make their way outside, Eileen and Cas break off into their own tête-à-tête, signing to each other. Dean can’t follow along, they both sign way too quickly for him, but he does catch the signs for 'hate,' 'bother,' and 'try.' They look comfortable with each other, friendly even, huddled together like co-conspirators and it makes Dean bristle.

He zones back into Sam and Gabe’s conversation, where the latter is confirming that both he and his brother will be at the Falls Park party the following weekend.

_Sonovabitch._

Dean just can’t get away from him. What’s a guy gotta do for some goddamn peace and quiet?

They finally say their goodbyes and Castiel and Gabriel take off in the other direction as Dean, Sam and Eileen regroup on the sidewalk.

“Well?”

Dean watches Castiel the entire way, his lingering gaze hidden behind dark sunglasses. He’s pretty sure Sam notices anyway.

“Well, what?” Dean drags his attention back to his brother.

“You know,” Sam sighs, “you can’t avoid him forever, Dean.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Dean drawls. His plans were much more simple. “Don’t plan on ever seeing him again after he leaves, actually.”

Sam and Eileen faces scrunch in confusion, a look passing between them before Sam responds.

“That’s going to be hard to do,” Sam says cautiously. “Considering he’s moving here.”

“What?”

“Well, it’s not official,” Sam explains, signing so Eileen can follow. “But he’s been thinking about it for awhile now. He does a lot of work for us, pro bono, and the Omega Rights bill is gaining traction. Plus there’s Gabe and he’s got friends here.”

Dean’s eyeballs might bug out of his head.

“It makes sense,” Sam shrugs.

It may make sense for Sam and his law firm, for Gabe and maybe Charlie, but it sure as hell doesn’t put Dean in a good position.

Castiel is like a weed, snaking his way into Dean’s life and taking root before he even had a chance to notice.


	8. Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't seen a picture of Falls Park in Sioux Falls, I highly recommend consulting your favorite search engine now. Also...I'm really, REALLY sorry for the wait. I hope this makes up for it.

Dean stands at the top of the hill, stuffing his cold fingers into his pockets as he scans the open lawn below and the rushing water beyond that. The Falls Park party was Ellen’s idea and she couldn’t have picked a better Saturday to have a picnic. 

He’s been looking forward to it all week — one last chance to enjoy the great outdoors before Sioux Falls is draped in a blanket of snow and it’s too damn cold to do anything. 

Down by the water, three picnic tables are draped in Ellen’s classic red-and-white checkered tablecloths and loaded with food. Dean hopes she didn’t forget the pie this year.  

A flash of red hair and a bright smile is enough to bring one to his own face. 

“Dean!” 

Charlie yells across the park, arms flailing in the air as though Dean can’t clearly see them less than 100 yards in front of him. He laughs, legs picking up speed as he descends downhill toward the tables.

Half of the couples — Ellen and Bobby, Benny and Andrea, Charlie and Gilda — are already seated. Sam and Eileen are chumming it up with Garth and Bess while their twins, Ethan and Emily, play with Dean’s nephew, Thomas. Gabe is in the middle of everything, probably annoying Jody and Donna, while Jo is talking with her friends from school. 

And Castiel. 

_Sonovabitch._

Of course he’s here. 

Gabe had mentioned they were coming, but Dean secretly hoped Castiel’s radiator hose would bite the dust again. Or something equally inconvenient. 

Everyone notices his arrival (thanks to Charlie’s anatomically impossible set of lungs) and they all wave, welcoming him as they converge on the picnic tables like an army of ants. 

Dean feels tiny arms wrap around his legs at the knees, before hearing a cry of something that sounds like ‘let’s eat, I’m hungry!’

“I’m sorry, buddy,” Dean laughs, ruffling Thomas’ hair while the tiny terror piles potato salad on his plate. “I thought you guys would have started already.”

“Nah-uh, Uncle Dean,” Thomas says, grabbing one of the sliders Charlie made. “We wanted to wait for you!”

He should have known, really, and he feels guilty for making everyone wait on him. Dean glances up to find a few knowing smiles and one pair of sharp blue eyes. 

“Thanks, buddy,” he mumbles, awkwardly rubbing at the back of his neck when he notices everyone enjoying his discomfort. “You guys didn’t have to wait on me.” 

He swears they all purposefully find ways to play ‘Dean Winchester is Bad at Feelings™’ the extended edition. 

Dean busies himself with the plasticware, fiddling with the napkins until the awkwardness passes. 

Only then does he glance in Castiel’s direction, catching his gaze, which is no less astute than before. The man’s probably wondering why the hell everyone wanted to wait so long just for Dean. 

Dean often wonders the same thing.  

Bobby breaks the silence, drawing Dean’s eyes away from Castiel at the other end of the picnic table, still wearing that stupid freakin' trench coat. 

“How’s the garage?”

“Still standing,” Dean jokes, flashing his famous shit-eating grin in Bobby’s direction, causing the old man to roll his eyes before he chuckles. 

“Anyone come in?”

“You know Miss Mabel had to come visit her favorite mechanic,” Dean drawls.

She’s about a hundred years old and Dean’s never seen her in anything but her Sunday best, even if she only needs a new filter or fuse. Or windshield wipers. 

“More like her favorite eye candy,” Jo butts in, laughing at Dean’s blushing cheeks. He elbows her, sending her stumbling into the table but still laughing at his expense. 

“Shut up, Jo,” he grumbles, before turning back to Bobby, “Her check-engine light came on, but she just needed some more coolant. Topped off her windshield wiper fluid, too.” 

“Let me guess,” Bobby says, eyebrow arching in mock displeasure, “you didn’t charge her a dime.”

Dean grins, ducking his head sheepishly before grabbing a slider and wandering off, Ellen’s amused chuckle starting up in his wake. 

He’s not far enough away to miss Bobby’s fond, “idjit.”

The food is great, it usually is where Ellen and Benny are concerned, and for the first few minutes, nobody talks because they’re too busy cramming their faces. 

Mary always said the best compliment to someone's cooking was a silent table.

Eventually, the buzz of conversation fills the air and Dean eats instead of joining in. He focuses on the noise and not the words, enjoying the ebb and flow of it, listening like a bird perched on a tree branch, not an ant on the table. 

It’s comforting.

“No, it’s best to leave that job for Sam,” Castiel says with a wry chuckle. Something about it catches Dean’s attention, drawing him back to the here and now. “I’m not made for the courtroom.” 

“And why is that?”

The words are out before he can think better of it, sounding a lot more sharp and sarcastic than he intended. He schools his features into something less hostile and more openly curious. 

For a split second, the cute head-tilt and furrowed brows are back — but the puzzled expression is quickly replaced by suspicion, then indignation. Dean fights the urge to bare his neck in supplication.

“It’s just not for me,” Castiel says quietly, shoulders haunching as he withdraws from Dean’s scrutiny to focus on his corn casserole. 

“What he means is —” Gabe cuts in, all too eager to sell out his little brother,  “— he doesn’t have the _personality_ for it, doesn’t like confrontation...or public speaking, for that matter.” 

“ _Gabriel.”_

“It’s alright, Castiel,” Sam smiles encouragingly, “you can leave the closing arguments for me, so long as you promise to keep feeding me the lines.”

“You know we wouldn’t have made it this far without you,” Eileen adds, smiling sweetly across the table. 

This is all new information for Dean, and he’s not really sure how to process it. 

He can’t process much of anything right now, not when the corners of Castiel’s mouth are twitching in some semblance of a smile, changing the shape of his face and capturing Dean’s attention in more ways than one. 

He blames that for the lack of brain-to-mouth filter.

“I thought Alphas were supposed to be bold and boisterous?” Dean scoffs. 

He belatedly realizes his mistake, hand freezing halfway to his mouth with a spoonful of coleslaw.

Their neighbors in Minnesota could probably hear the pin drop. 

Dean’s eyes dart to Castiel’s hurt expression, but not before taking in Charlie and Sam’s disappointed ones. 

_Grade A move, asshole._

Dean opens his mouth to say something that will weaken the blow when Castiel’s flat voice reaches his ears. 

“Are all omegas supposed to be meek and mild?”

Dean pales. 

Castiel quickly stands from the table, leaving nothing but his empty plate and a heavy silence. Dean watches him as he goes, frown deepening the farther he gets. 

Both Sam and Charlie open their mouths, but Dean’s halfway out of his seat before they can reprimand him. He chooses to ignore their surprised expressions in favor of trailing after the mop of brown hair and tan trench coat. 

Dean follows Castiel uphill toward the playground, the wind hitting him in the face and bringing a hint of cinnamon with it...and something else that makes Dean's heart ache with longing.

He clenches his jaw and walks faster. 

Those runner's legs put Dean at a disadvantage, so by the time he catches up to Castiel, the man is already breaking up an argument between Thomas and Ethan.

Dean stops when the baritone rumble washes over him, a soothing cadence meant for the boys and not for Dean’s aching chest. It works anyhow. 

“ — and it’s not nice to take things from other people without asking first,” Castiel says, crouching down to look at both of them on equal footing. “I’m sure you both know that.” 

He waits for them to nod their heads before continuing. 

“Now, who had the toy first?”

“I had it first and Ethan took it from me because he said — he said —”  Thomas sniffles, the pouting evident in his voice.  

“I get to play with it first because I’m going to be an Alpha!” Ethan argues.

Dean holds his breath, curious as to how Castiel will handle this. 

“Ethan, why do you think Alphas should get a toy before anyone else?”

“Because Alphas are strong and omegas are weak,” he replies, though his conviction is waning. 

“Yeah,” Thomas confirms, nodding his head sagely. “Billy at school said Alphas get to do what they want and omegas have to listen ‘cause they are weak.” 

Dean knows kids are mostly innocent and just repeat what they hear, but the statement is no less cutting. Castiel turns his attention to Thomas. 

“Like your Uncle Dean?” 

Dean's stomach drops.

His skin flushes hot then cold, the hairs on his neck standing on edge, a wave of nausea rolling through him. He knew the guy was a dick, but to say it in front of —

“Wh-what?” Thomas asks, his voice shaky. 

It cuts Dean to the core and he wants so badly to rip Castiel a new one. Nevermind the fact that he’s outing Dean’s secondary gender to his nephew. 

“Your Uncle Dean,” Castiel repeats. “He’s an omega. Do you think he’s weak?” 

“No!” Thomas cries vehemently. “My Uncle Dean is the strongest ever! He’s stronger than my Daddy!”

Tears well up in Dean’s eyes, baffled by Thomas’ statement and honored by the fact that his omega status isn’t even a blip on his nephew’s radar. Sammy raised him right.

“What do you think, Ethan?” Castiel asks calmly. 

“I think Billy is wrong,” Ethan answers. He glances at Thomas for confirmation, who’s still sniffling and red-faced. “Omegas can be strong, too. Just like Uncle Dean!” 

Dean doesn’t know when Ethan decided to call him ‘uncle,’ but it makes him feel lighter. He’s around Garth often enough for it to be true. 

“That’s right,” Castiel confirms. “Our secondary genders do not define who we are as people. Just like our skin color, or hair color, or anything else. Do you understand?” 

Both boys nod in unison before Castiel pokes both of them in the belly, making them laugh. His knees crack when he stands up. 

“Good,” he nods, “no more silly Alpha-omega talk. Now, how about you two play together?” 

The boys run off, shrieking and laughing like they didn’t just learn a huge life lesson. One that probably won’t make sense for another few years, anyway. 

Castiel turns around, jerking to a stop when he finds Dean in his path. The small smile on his lips instantly clears from his face. 

“Dean —” he starts, but falls silent before he drops his gaze to the ground, like he can’t bear to look Dean in the eyes. Dean can't blame him, he doesn't want to look at himself right now either. 

“He didn’t know,” Dean says, voice hoarse and not much louder than a whisper. 

Castiel’s head snaps up. 

“What?” 

“Thomas. He didn’t know I’m an omega,” Dean repeats, but there’s no anger in his voice. He’s just...tired. Tired of hiding. 

“Dean, I’m — I’m so sorry,” Castiel pleads, twisting the knife in Dean’s chest a little deeper. “I — I didn’t know.” 

Dean doesn’t reply; he doesn’t know what to say. 

“But,” Castiel starts, brows drawing up in confusion, head tilting back into that puzzled expression that fascinates Dean so much. “Why?”

Dean shrugs. 

Does he really want to answer that? Where would he even begin?

Best not to think about it in case he starts feeling ashamed for feeling ashamed. Winchester Motto #27. 

“Do you believe it?” Dean asks. “Do you believe what you said?”

“Of course,” Cas breathes, as though he can’t fathom why Dean would even need to ask. “I — 

“I want to,” Dean cuts in. “I want to believe it, but life has taught me otherwise.” 

❋          ❋          ❋

  
Two hours, a game of bean bag toss, and one pie later, Dean finds himself standing on the observation pier overlooking the Falls. The afternoon sun is fading, casting a glow over the rock faces. 

It really is beautiful, but the photos never do it justice — nothing could ever capture the way the sun hits the water as it crashes over the rocks, the way it refracts on the waterfalls. 

From one second to the next, Dean can feel it at his back, the way the air is suddenly wrought with pressure and energy and _tension._

Dean doesn’t have to look over his shoulder to know that Castiel is behind him. The man is a living spark of electricity, sizzling through Dean’s senses like hairspray through the ozone. 

And that’s only gotten worse after today. Overhearing Castiel’s speech to the boys, watching him fit in so seamlessly with his family, hearing him moan over the pie, seeing him laugh at someone else’s joke...the Alpha confuses Dean to no end. 

The version of Castiel he’s seen today supports what he's heard from Gabe, Sam, Charlie and even Ellen...but none of that matches with what _he_ first experienced. Trying to make sense of it all is like doing donuts in Baby — he gets nowhere. 

If he took Sam’s advice and simply _asked_ Castiel, he might have a clearer picture, but for now he’s just staring at what pieces he has and trying to put a puzzle together with no picture. 

Castiel’s forearms plant on the railing a respectable distance away, hands clasped as he squints at the water. Dean doesn’t move from his spot.  

He’s not sure how long they stand there staring at the water, sharing a surprisingly comfortable silence, but it’s long enough for Dean to forget that the silence shouldn’t be comfortable. 

Finally, _finally_ , Castiel’s gravelly baritone rumbles through him. 

“It’s beautiful isn’t it?”

Dean knows Castiel is talking about more than the view. It’s bait and, per usual, he takes it.

“What is?”

Dean can’t help but glance in Castiel’s direction, gaze drawn to the lines around his eyes, the way his dry lips purse before he speaks, the muscle twitching in his jaw. 

“The water.”

Dean raises an eyebrow at that. He’s not sure where this is going, but he wants to see it through at least, now that Castiel’s gotten his attention. 

“These huge rocks stand in its way, telling the water where to run, when to flow, how far, how fast...how it should _be._ ”

He trails off quietly before taking a deep breath. 

“And the water does what it wants anyway.” 

Dean doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything. He’s not sure how Castiel takes his silence, but the man nods once. 

“Beautiful,” Castiel murmurs, before patting the rail once and swiftly turning back in the direction from which he came. 

It takes less than thirty seconds for Dean’s mouth to fuck it all up. 

“Wait.”

Castiel doesn’t turn around, but he does stop. Even from here, Dean can see the way his shoulder muscles tense and twitch under his trench coat. 

Dean’s feet carry him around until he’s standing in front of the man, eyes wide in uncertainty because, even now, he still has no idea what he’s going to say. 

His omega is running the show now, he’s just in the box seat.

“What do you want?”

It comes out more like a whisper, but Dean’s not tip-toeing around this any longer. If Castiel is going to be a part of his life, whether Dean likes it or not, he wants all the cards on the table. 

No surprises.

“A chance,” Castiel replies simply, his voice echoing the same honesty and earnestness in his eyes. 

It catches Dean a little off guard. 

When an answer isn’t forthcoming, Castiel squares his shoulders and tries again.

“I just want a chance to get to know you, Dean,” Castiel states, his shoulders moving in a half-aborted shrug. “I — “

“Why?” 

“I like you, Dean,” Castiel replies bluntly. “I want to know more about you.” 

“Why?”

 _Jesus Christ_. 

He sounds like a broken record. 

“You don’t even know me,” Dean adds.

“I know enough,” Castiel says, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

Dean’s heartbeat jumps into overdrive knowing that smile is meant for _him_.

“I know that you’re the kind of man to not charge little old ladies for windshield wiper fluid and the kind that signs to a baby bump and says hi to dogs on the sidewalk,” Castiel says, his smile getting a little bit wider with every sentence. 

Dean can’t stop staring. 

“The kind that would invite his best friend and her girlfriend _and_ their cats stay in his apartment even though he’s allergic, just because the power went out,” he continues, while Dean makes a mental note to shoot Charlie later. 

“I know that you’d do anything for your family and friends, and that you’d help a stranger with their car, even if you didn’t like them very much,” Castiel smiles wryly at that. 

“I’ve seen enough, and heard enough, Dean,” Castiel concludes, delivering his closing argument as good as any other lawyer, “to know that you are a good man.”

He stands tall, self-assured, like a man on trial waiting for his verdict though already at peace with either fate. 

Like he’s placing his future in Dean’s hands and happy to do it, despite the odds. 

“All I’m asking — 

Dean prays to every God he’s ever heard of that Castiel can’t hear his frantic heartbeat. 

— is for a chance to show you that I can be one, too.”


	9. Midnight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Dean and Cas get into a scuffle with a group of thugs, there are some minor injuries, but no true trigger warnings for this chapter.

Dean had the perfect opportunity, and he fucked it up. 

He could have asked Castiel point blank about the scent-marking, the Alpha red eyes, his erratic behavior, but instead Dean just...walked away. 

The lightness blooming in his chest was instantly squashed by the hardened voice in his head shouting, “ _Satan in a Sunday hat.”_

One bold question and all of this could have been cleared up — or resolved for good. 

Dean still doesn’t know how it happened; he doesn’t remember telling his legs to move, and his omega sure as hell didn’t. 

But he walked away. 

He walked away, leaving Castiel standing by the pier with such a profound expression of sorrow on his face it — well, it’s one Dean never wants to see again, by his hand or anyone else’s, despite his misgivings about Castiel.  

His omega is skulking in a corner somewhere in the back of his mind, and Dean is hurtling toward that funk or fog or some other word that probably starts with ‘F.’

He can’t stop thinking about it. 

Every spare moment of Dean’s time is spent over-analyzing those five minutes — flashes of Castiel’s smile, the word ‘chance’ playing on his lips, the Alpha left standing alone by the pier, trench coat flapping with the wind. 

If he’s not thinking about work, pie, or Baby, Dean is reliving that conversation over and over again, imagining what he could have said or done instead of just _walking away._

That answer changes every hour. 

At 10 a.m., Dean would’ve said he should have asked Castiel _why_ he behaved like a knothead if he supposedly supports omega rights. By 11 a.m., Dean would’ve said he should have told Castiel to piss off. 

And as much as he’d love to forget about it, he can’t casually ignore his own behavior either. Dean’s never been one for stereotypes, but he went and did the same thing that he despises so much — and he hates himself for it. He has no idea where it even came from but he’s ashamed and not entirely ready to forgive himself. 

Thank Chuck the kids weren’t around to hear it. 

The thing is, Dean’s done a lot of reflecting in the past few days and he still doesn’t know where he stands. It hurts, it’s confusing, and forcing his brain on autopilot if the amount of nesting is anything to go by. And don’t even get him started on the pathetic whining from his inner omega.

Hell, even Bobby yells at him for dropping wrenches at the garage more than once.

God, it’s just all so fucked up he doesn’t know what to think. 

So, he does what anyone would do: he calls his best friend. 

Charlie must know that something is up, she always knows, but she surprisingly keeps her silence through two movies, Thai food, and a rousing game of Mario Kart. 

But Dean can’t stop fidgeting. 

Charlie puts her controller on the table as if she knows what’s coming. Dean eyes her speculatively, chewing on his lip before taking the leap. 

“Tell me about him,” he whispers, afraid to alert the universe to his treachery.

So she does. 

Charlie tells Dean about the time Castiel baked Gabriel a cake for his birthday and used salt instead of sugar. 

She tells him about the time Gabriel glued his little brother’s hand to a beer bottle, so Castiel put Nair in his big brother’s body wash. 

About the time they dragged him out for Karaoke; he picked the Tequila song and Charlie laughed so hard she peed her pants. 

The time he rescued a cat and named it Warrant because he ‘couldn’t name her Cherry Pie, Charlie, that would be weird.’ 

And, most recently, the time when Castiel and Charlie got drunk at Comic Con and got tattoos. 

“Wait,” Dean cuts in, “the Princess Leia tattoo?”

Charlie is cackling like a madwoman but manages to nod her head. 

“Castiel got one, too?” Dean blurts, eyes as round as saucers.

“No,” she breathes, her fit of giggles finally coming to an end. “He got angel wings across his back to cover his scar, but I got the — “

“What scar?” Dean asks, way more curious than he should be. 

Charlie’s eyes widen marginally before her face settles into a grimace. She picks at the thread on her pants. 

“Um,” she starts, and Dean can tell he won’t like the answer. “I think that’s a story Castiel should tell you himself.” 

But Dean thinks he already knows. 

 

❋          ❋          ❋

 

A wise man once said, “In beer, there is freedom; in water, there is bacteria.” 

Or some shit like that. 

Point is, Dean thought freedom sounded real nice, if only from his own thoughts.

That’s how he ended up at The Roadhouse around midnight, commandeering the corner bar stool and drinking the night away. He sticks to beer, usually the only thing Ellen will serve him, but he fails to mention the whiskey he drank beforehand. 

Freedom is costly.

Four beers deep and Dean is just leaving, stepping out into the cold with nothing but a leather jacket and a buzz when he hears laughter. It’s not just any laughter — it’s the kind that makes Dean’s hackles rise. 

_Malicious._

Across the street, Dean spots four men in a semicircle, herding some poor bastard towards the alley, and it pisses Dean off more so than he already was — he’d stopped by The Roadhouse to drink his sorrows away and it didn’t even fucking work —  but Dean will be damned if he lets some kid get the shit beat out of him. Not if he can do something about it.

He sneaks up behind the group, listening as they taunt their prey. 

“ — what’s the matter, Alpha, cat got your tongue?”

“ — think you’re too good for us, huh?” 

“ — bet this pussy can’t even fight!”

Dean’s hands ball up in fists, teeth grinding as he gets closer. Close enough to see a mop of brown hair that looks vaguely familiar. 

“Hey,” he barks at them, putting as much force as possible into it. “Let him go!” 

They all turn with narrowed eyes and it’s then that Dean spots him in the middle. 

Castiel. 

A pit of dread settles in his stomach. 

“Ah, and what do we have here?” the ringleader grins viciously. “See that, Alpha?"

He stalks forward, pinning Dean with a look that says _prey._

"Once we’re done with you," he muses, "we have another treat to play with.” 

They all laugh, scanning Dean's form with hungry eyes. The man holding Castiel by the shoulder stage whispers into his ear. 

“He sure is pretty for a beta, though,” his grip tightens and Castiel winces. “Bet he’s got a tight ass, too.” 

Castiel’s eyes narrow in anger, then confusion. 

_Sonovabitch._

Dean can see the wheels turning and prays Castiel doesn’t question it. 

“Dean,” Castiel remarks flatly, “please leave.” 

He looks resigned, like he’s all too used to this and already prepared for what comes next — and that just grinds Dean’s gears. 

Before he can speak, the instigator perks up, eyes dancing with wicked mirth as he steps toward Dean.

“You know this sorry excuse for an Alpha?” he mocks, hooking a thumb over his shoulder and laughing sarcastically when Dean doesn’t answer. 

“Isn’t that interesting,” he purrs. “Well, it must be our lucky night, boys.” 

He glances around at his crew, taking in their sneers before casually inspecting his fingernails. 

“In that case, Alpha,” he taunts, turning toward Castiel, “we’ll start with him, so you can watch.” 

A growl bursts from Castiel’s chest as his eyes light up in a deep, ruby red. 

There’s a split-second of frozen awe before all hell breaks loose. 

Dean turns toward the two idiots closest to him, relishing the fear in the larger one’s face right before Dean’s fist connects with his jaw. 

The sudden hit to Dean’s face isn’t that much of a surprise — there’s no way he’s coming out of a two-on-one without a scratch — but that doesn’t mean it hurts any less.   

But he’s used to the pain. 

The second goon barely has time to recover from his shock before Dean is sucker punching him in the gut. He doubles over, but Dean sends him right back up with an uppercut to the jaw. 

_Lights out._

The man hits the pavement like a sack of bricks. 

Dean quickly glances over to Castiel’s tangle, mildly surprised that the Alpha is holding his own.   

Dean is distantly aware of the sounds of a scuffle, the largest formidable foe recovering quickly from his initial attack, causing Dean to refocus his attention before the man charges like a bull from the gate. 

Dean doesn’t hold back. 

He throws punch after punch after punch. 

His knuckles are burning, but not nearly as bad as the anger stirring in his chest, just thinking about how these thugs had cornered Castiel and _how dare they hurt his mate_ and what could have happened to him if Dean hadn't been there and why wasn’t he fighting back and —

He’s not sure how long it goes on, but the next time Dean’s brain comes online, he’s panting hard and has blood on his shirt, and his cheekbone is sore with what’s sure to be a nice shiner.  

Tweedledee has a black eye and a split lip, blood dripping from his mouth as he stumbles back from Dean’s second uppercut of the night. 

Tweedledumb is still out cold on the pavement. 

The big goon comes back for more, but ends up clutching the side of his face where Dean lands a nice right hook and most likely fractures his jaw. 

Dean doesn’t even have time to appreciate it before he’s hit from behind and knocked to the ground. 

He lands hard, the air forced out of him with a loud grunt. 

“Dean!”

Castiel is still scrapping with his captor, but fighting hard to reach Dean before —

The ring leader kicks Dean in the stomach with a steel-toe boot.

Dean curls into a fetal position, fighting a wave of nausea and the urge to pass out. It hurts so fucking bad he can’t even focus on whatever is causing Tweedledee and Tweedledum to scamper away with their tails between their legs. 

A growl unlike any reverberates through the air. 

His eyes open just long enough to see a flash of tan, coarse hair and the bottom of a boot before everything goes black. 

 

❋          ❋         ❋

 

Something cold and soft touches Dean’s neck. He hums, but can't open his eyes. Not yet.

A dog whines nearby and Dean absently wonders where it came from. Maybe it's the dog from the bookshop. He likes that one. Nice doggie.

Tired.

Dean is tired. So tired that the cold, hard bed he’s lying on doesn’t seem all that bad. 

He starts to fall back asleep when the soft and wet thing is back at his neck, this time chuffing against his skin. 

_Sonovabitch._

It tickles. 

The cold, wet, soft thing moves from Dean’s neck up to his ear, the side of his face and back again. 

It takes Dean awhile to remember that he’d been in a fight. 

He’s in pain, but not nearly as bad as what he was expecting, all things considered. Perhaps that’s the adrenaline doing its job. Or the cold, wet thing. Dean’s not really sure.

What he does know is that his eyes should have opened by now. He likely has a concussion. 

The cold, wet, soft thing won’t let him sleep. Every time Dean starts slipping back into la-la-land, the thing is back, huffing until Dean is semi-conscious again.

And the dog is still whining. 

Dean eventually feels well enough to open his eyes without hurling, so he cracks open one lid, promptly yelping at the sight of bright blue eyes and a furry muzzle too damn close to his neck.

“What the fuck!” 

Dean scrambles back as far as the wall will let him, heart pounding as he takes in the form of a giant wolf looming over him. 

He moved too fast, the world is spinning and everything hurts and —

The wolf sniffs the air and whines again, a high-pitched pitiful sound, before backing up and sitting on its haunches like he’s completely housebroken and waiting for a treat. 

_What the —_

Definitely not the dog from the bookshop. 

The wolf sniffs again, head tilting in such a spot-on human expression of confusion that the realization slaps Dean in the face. 

_Holy shit._

This is rare. 

So rare, in fact, that Dean never thought he’d meet a full-shifting Alpha in his lifetime.

The wolf as dark as midnight lies down flat and inches forward until it can place its muzzle on Dean’s thigh, emitting another high-pitched whine that pulls at Dean’s heart strings.

“Holy shit,” Dean breathes. “Cas? Is that you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprised?


	10. Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading and commenting - it's really motivating and I love hearing what you think about each chapter! I'm giving you guys a longer chapter this time...it might be awhile before I can post again since we have a hurricane on the way and I'm moving this week. Enjoy!

Dean blinks. 

Once. 

Twice. 

Third time's the charm.

Nope, still there — the large, black wolf less than arm’s length away from where Dean is gracelessly sprawled on the sidewalk, half-leaning against a brick wall. 

This is probably the weirdest thing to ever happen to him, and yet, he’s not immediately flipping his shit. 

Not quite. 

Because Dean knows. He _knows_ , without a doubt, that this wolf is Castiel. 

He’d put money on it. Vegas odds. 

What he doesn’t know, however, is just how much of this thing is Castiel and how much is pure wolf.  

Half and half? Or is it more 70-30? 90-10? 

Unfortunately, Dean didn’t pay enough attention in 9th grade biology to know the difference, but he really, really doesn’t want his arm chewed off for making a sudden movement or something equally stupid.

Dean raises his hand slowly, so slowly, his eyes not once leaving the sparkling blue ones in front of him. 

The wolf, _Castiel,_ creeps forward until his muzzle touches the back of Dean’s outstretched hand. A bright pink, textured tongue rolls out to lick him and it makes his fingers tingle.

Dean sags with relief. 

“Cas?”

The wolf nudges Dean’s hand twice with its muzzle before sitting on its haunches again. Dean takes that as a yes. 

_Holy shit._

“Okay, alright,” he says, trying to maintain some semblance of calm. “You’re a wolf. You can full-shift, and you’re a wolf.” 

The wolf stares, unblinking, and Dean wants so badly to ask, _why didn’t you tell me_ , but he just can’t. That’s a conversation Dean needs to have when his head hasn’t hit the pavement recently. 

He blows out a hard breath and glances around, only just remembering that they are in a public place and probably shouldn’t stick around much longer, lest Tweedledee and Tweedledum come back for more. 

Dean scrubs a hand through his hair, grimacing when it reaches something sticky and most likely red. 

His head fucking hurts. 

The chilly night air feels harsh, making the beads of sweat around his forehead feel like ice against his skin. Perfectly spaced streetlights illuminate the quiet sidewalk where nothing else moves besides them and the wind.

The quiet is shattered in a snap when a deafening bang cracks through the air from the alley next to them, like tin falling on asphalt, loud and metallic. 

The sound pierces Dean’s sensitive ears and he flinches. 

Castiel moved before the noise even registered in Dean’s brain, rounding on the threat in seconds. He stands guard over Dean’s body, hunching and growling like he’s ready to rip it apart, whatever it is.

Dean’s heart pounds in his chest, his omega on instant alert and acutely aware of the Alpha protecting them. 

A raccoon scuttles out of the alley clutching a half-eaten bag of marshmallows, takes one look at them and scampers away with purpose, eager to keep its midnight snack.

Dean’s so flooded with adrenaline he can’t even laugh. 

Minutes pass. 

The raccoon is long gone but the wolf is still growling. Alert. 

“Hey, shhhh,” Dean soothes. “It’s gone.” 

It’s nice to know that Castiel isn’t above using his newly gotten canines to defend them, but right now they have bigger fish to fry.

Castiel is still growling but turns slowly, and Dean is instantly captivated by his eyes. Again. 

This time, though, they’re red. 

Alpha red. 

Dean runs on instinct, no idea what’s going on in Castiel’s head but he takes a chance — 

“We’re okay,” he says gently, attempting to appease the protective Alpha in front of him. “I’m okay.”  

The bared teeth are slowly covered, the growling turns into panting, red eyes fading back to blue.

“I’m okay,” Dean repeats, bringing his hand up for the wolf to sniff before brushing it through the thick coat of fur. Castiel relaxes minutely, but stands guard, seemingly unwilling to move away from him.

Dean chalks it up to Alpha instinct since Castiel knows he’s an omega — Alphas are instinctually inclined to protect an omega in need, that’s all. 

But they need to get out of here before anyone sees them or the motley crew comes back.

Dean doesn’t want to go back to The Roadhouse, even though it’s the closest place. Ellen will just mother-hen him to death and Dean’s not so sure Castiel wants people to know about this. Dean certainly wouldn’t. 

No, this situation calls for a bit more delicacy. 

Dean is debating on taking Castiel back to his place or walking the shorter distance to Gabe’s when the cold muzzle is back at his neck, huffing breaths of hot air against his skin. 

Dean freezes, unsure of the wolf’s intentions. 

Castiel sniffs once, whimpers softly before licking a broad strip up the side of Dean’s face. 

He laughs. 

Probably not the time when there’s a mouthful of sharp and pointy teeth near his jugular, but he can’t help it — he’s delirious. Or deranged.

“Alright,” Dean says, gently pushing Castiel’s muzzle away from his bloody face so he can stand. “Let’s blow this popsicle stand.” 

An old lady with a broken hip could’ve gotten up faster than Dean, but he finally makes it with a minimal amount of vertigo and assistance from the shifter beside him.

Now that he’s vertical, it’s apparent that Castiel is much larger than a normal wolf, his withers in line with Dean’s mid-to-upper thigh. 

 _Massive._  

Dean starts hobbling toward Gabe’s apartment, seriously questioning his life choices if they’re leading him to believe Gabe could ever be the solution in a _delicate situation_.

Castiel is warm against his side. Dean leans into him, secretly appreciative for the support. He might also like the way his fingers feel threading through the midnight black coat.

So sue him. 

Castiel uses his newly heightened senses to survey their surroundings while noticeably keeping an eye on Dean at the same time. Dean catches the wolf gazing at him more than once, and he can’t quite decipher the look. 

It’s harder to read expressions on a shifter, he supposes. Except the head-tilt thing, _that_ is...spot on. 

They keep on walking, Dean putting a little bit more weight on Castiel the farther they go, thankful he decided on Gabe’s place and not his own. 

_Almost there._

Castiel starts to whimper, casting increasingly concerned glances in Dean’s direction while he leads them to the door marked in brass, #13.

Dean knocks on Gabe’s door as loud as he dares, but even that is too damn loud, the sound nearly splitting his head in two. He definitely has a concussion. 

The door opens a beat later, with Gabriel grinning behind it. 

Gabe’s smile falls as he takes in Dean’s appearance, aghast at the amount of blood — faces bleed like a bitch — before noticing the giant wolf pressing into Dean’s side. His eyes widen, ping-ponging back and forth between the two of them like he doesn’t know which to address first. 

The blood is pounding in Dean’s ears now, his brain throbbing with the worst headache of all time. 

“Heya, Gabe,” Dean slurs, grinning as the room spins. “How’s it hanging?” 

He collapses.

 

❋          ❋          ❋

 

There’s a cold, wet thing on Dean’s face again, but it’s not a soft wolf nose this time. It’s scratchy.

He slowly comes back to full consciousness as the soft bed beneath him dips with added weight. He cautiously cracks open one lid, relieved when light doesn’t immediately assault his eyeballs.  

“Ah, there you are,” Gabe says, gently patting Dean’s face with a washcloth. “I was beginning to worry, wondering if I should call 9-1-1.” 

“No,” Dean rasps. “No hospitals. Don’t call Sam either.” 

“I figured as much,” Gabe sighs, all too familiar with Dean’s antics. “But you’re not leaving — you’re going to stay here and I’m going to check on you every two hours.” 

Dean’s too tired to even argue. He nods, and then immediately regrets it. His head still fucking hurts. 

“Cas?” 

“He’s fine,” Gabe murmurs, face softening. “But we’re all going to talk about this later.” 

Dean is asleep before the last word falls. 

Like clockwork, Gabriel wakes him every two hours to ask Dean increasingly ridiculous questions, _Does a rock float on water? Do fish swim in the sea? Does one pound weigh more than two?_

He always answers dutifully before falling back asleep, groggy and slightly nauseated, but aware enough to note the shadow of a wolf always looming nearby. Sometimes it’s leaving the bed just as Dean is waking up, other times it hovers in the doorway, but he’s always there. 

Even in sleep, Dean feels warm and safe, blanketed by a presence in the room that can only be _Alpha_. When he’s just on the cusp of awake-asleep and the bed dips, something heavy settling near his feet, he feels comforted in a way that he hasn’t in a long time. 

Not since John and Mary were still around and Dean’s house was still a home.  

_Home._

Dean latches onto that word like it’s a lifeline. 

At some point, the heavy weight disappears and Dean immediately misses it, the comfort that it gave him. He tries to swim back to consciousness to find out where it went, only to be met with hushed voices. He keeps his eyes closed, listening from the faraway corners of his sleepy, cobwebbed mind. 

_“You have to tell him,” Gabe says softly, but decisively._

_“I tried, Gabe,” a deeper voice rumbles, Dean instantly assigning it to Castiel. “He doesn’t want any of this. I’ve already screwed up.”_

_“But Cassie, this all makes sense now!” Gabe pleads. “He deserves to know.”_

_Dean’s never heard him quite so desperate before._

_“Let him make that decision,” Gabe says, softer this time but no less convincing._

_“He already did.”_

 

❋          ❋          ❋

 

 

 _The brain works in mysterious ways,_ Dean thinks as he crawls his way out of a lucid dream. 

And by funny, he means it’s fucking nuts. 

Get hit on the head one time and suddenly he’s dreaming about Madonna’s cone tits from 1990?

Castiel showing up on his car naked and covered in bees?

Yeah, fucking nuts. 

He’s pretty sure Sam is in the dream somewhere, but Benny’s a vampire and —

That’s just great, now he’s out of bacon for the cassette player. 

_Bacon?_

That doesn’t sound right. 

Dean’s stomach rumbles, pulling him out of sleep faster than he would have liked — but now the bacon makes sense. The smell wafts in from the kitchen, Gabe humming horrendously off-tune while he cooks. 

Dean feels awful. Like he went on a three-day Absinthe bender and got a casino chip shoved up his brain for his troubles. Or something. Whatever. 

Dean slowly blinks the sleep from his eyes and starts to stretch when the bed dips and suddenly feels lighter. He rolls over just as Castiel is trotting away. 

“Wait.” 

The Alpha’s long, lithe form twitches with tightly coiled tension when he stops and Dean is starkly reminded of a similar scene at the park. He doesn’t turn around.

Before Dean can speak, Gabe saunters into the room with a shit-eating grin on his face, taking in the situation. 

“I told you he’d catch you,” Gabe smirks at his brother before turning to Dean. “How are you feeling?”

 _Catch him?_  

Catch him hiding the fact that he’s a full-shift Alpha? Yeah, that’s pretty —

“Good,” Dean clears his throat. “Uh, fine. Do I smell bacon?”

“Sure do, Dean-O,” Gabe chuckles, bouncing on his toes. “We can talk over breakfast, ‘cause I’m just dying to know how _you_ ended up with a concussion and how my _baby brother_ turned into a giant fluff ball.”

Something about the way he says it makes him think that Castiel’s full-shift is just as much of a surprise to Gabe as it is to Dean. Hell, maybe Castiel never even told his brother. 

Or maybe…

“So, I take it this has never happened before?”

Gabe stares at him, dumbfounded, like Dean can’t possibly be this much of an idiot. 

“Dean — are you freakin’ — “ Gabe cuts off, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Of course this has never happened before!” Gabe says, gesturing wildly to his new furry family member. 

Castiel rises up off his haunches, watching both of them warily. Dean pretends not to notice when the wolf shifts ever so slightly to stand in front of him. 

“Before you, he never even — ”

Castiel’s growl rolls through the room like thunder. 

Gabe cuts off with a surprised look on his childish face, eyes wide as he turns to stare at Castiel. He has a moment of contemplation before his eyes narrow. 

“Oh, what?” Gabe asks, eyebrow raised but totally and completely serious in his frustration. “Don’t want me to spill all of your secrets?” 

Castiel just stares at his brother, those bright blue eyes looking much more menacing when accompanied by claws and pointy teeth. 

“Fine,” Gabriel sighs, throwing his hands up in surrender, “Fine.” 

“Wha — ” 

Gabe points a finger at his brother, ignoring Dean’s inquisition. “But you two are going to have to get your shit sorted out sooner rather than later.” 

His thinly veiled threat is only slightly dampened by the obnoxious stomping that carries him out of the room like a giant toddler. 

 

 

❋          ❋          ❋

 

 

They talk over breakfast. 

Well, Dean and Gabe talk — Castiel watches petulantly from his spot on the couch.

Dean pointedly avoids looking in his direction, but he’s constantly aware of the Alpha, like he can feel those expressive baby blues boring into the back of his skull at any given moment.

He gives Gabriel as much detail as he can, but all the talking is giving him a headache and Dean is still tired.

Actually, he’s about two seconds away from taking a nap standing up. He needs to get back to his memory-foam mattress a-sap.

Dean's been on the wrong end of a fist (boot) one too many times and he knows the only real cure is sleep and time. 

There's probably whiskey in there somewhere, too. 

_Take ibuprofen for the headache, whiskey for the wounded pride._

Dean sighs and hefts himself up from the chair, “I’m gonna head out, try to catch some z’s before my afternoon shift.” 

Gabe opens his mouth to protest, but he doesn’t get the chance. Castiel is already sitting on his haunches in front of the door like he knew Dean would try to leave. A small rumble bursts from the wolf's broad chest.

Not an order, a plea.

“Castiel,” Dean says, trying too hard to sound polite as he advances on the door. “Please move.” 

The wolf doesn’t move, but the rumble intensifies and Dean’s nearly knocked on his ass when he _smells_ Castiel’s desperation, a hundred times more potent than the cinnamon that permanently follows him. 

Gabe’s eyes play a tennis match between the two of them and, when it’s clear neither Dean nor Cas are going to break eye contact, he jumps in. 

“Dean, you can’t go back to work,” Gabe says reasonably. “I’ve already called Bobby and told him you need the day off, you need to rest.”

Castiel whines, high-pitched and pleading, causing Dean’s inner omega to whimper in sympathy. Dean wants to bare his neck to the Alpha and it irks him.

But he’s not giving in – he’s going home.

“I’ll be fine, Gabe,” Dean says, pushing past the small man and the wolf. “Thanks for the patch job.”

“Dean,” Gabe sighs despite looking resigned to the fact that Dean is leaving come hell or high water.

Castiel’s ears flatten against his head, but he moves.

It feels wrong to be leaving but he can’t stay, he can’t stay.

He walks out, closing the door with a resounding click. It sounds so final.

Castiel scratches at the door, whining and whimpering loudly, and the twinge in Dean’s chest is just another reason to go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?


End file.
